


Amuse-Bouche

by bauble



Series: Amuse-Bouche [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Eames is a world famous pop star who hires Arthur as his bodyguard.Written for Inception Bang in collaboration with the magnificent dumbimps.





	1. The Hors d'oeuvres

> Every well-designed wine flight should tell a story. Indeed, that may be sound advice for any host attempting to craft a menu which does not bore their guests to tears.  
>  - _The Land and Food We Live On_ , by Sonya Roy

"Remember, don't stand directly underneath the giant radish," Arthur says. 

"I've kinda had a weird life," Krystyl says. "But that's still a pretty strange thing to hear."

"I'm serious." Arthur casts a distrustful eye across the grassy field to where a huddle of reporters are milling around. Directly in front of them is the makeshift stage—that is, a large tarp on the ground—along with a table outfitted with microphones and speakers. Looming behind the table is a thirty-foot-tall balloon shaped like a radish and stamped with the words ' _Kao o Taberu Hito_ ' which, from what he's been told, is the name of the energy drink sponsoring the charity event this press conference is for. The charity itself doesn't seem particularly well-organized, which is unfortunate but fairly typical; the nicest things set out on this field are the corporate-sponsor branded equipment and swag. "I don't think that balloon's been properly secured. If it topples, it could seriously injure someone."

"I know it's your job to worry about me, but I'm pretty sure I can outrun a falling radish-balloon." Krystyl smiles. "I'm gonna be fine, Arthur."

Arthur's guarded a lot of people in the six years he's been doing this. These days, it's mostly entertainment types like singers and actors, who often need more protection from themselves than from anybody else. When he first got offered the job to guard a fifteen-year-old country singer, the first thing he'd said was, _hell no_ , and then, _there's a phrase for people who agree to be bodyguards for child stars: idiots who get fired after the kid's first DUI_. 

But six months later and here he is, looking out for a B-list singer who's been touring so long she doesn't know what the inside of a school looks like first-hand. And surprisingly enough, it hasn't been so bad. No worse than some of the other people Arthur's had to protect, anyway.

"They put too much makeup on you again," Arthur says, changing the subject. "You don't need all that stuff on your face."

"It looks better from far away, which is the distance they'll be taking photographs of me from," she says, looking and sounding far too old for her age. Her expression softens into a crooked smile—a genuine one, not the professionally smooth one she's always making in the mirror. "Thanks, though."

One of the event coordinators calls Krystyl's name, and Arthur watches her walk to the table, taking a seat at the far end. Overhead, the radish sways in the breeze, and he frowns.

* * * * *

An hour passes, Krystyl answering the reporters' questions about the charity and why it's so important to her with a candor and ease that seems natural, but is really the product of painstaking practice. Eventually, other C-List celebrities show up—an actor, a minor league basketball player—and some of the attention shifts towards them.

The show doesn’t really start, however, until the headliner of the charity concert arrives: an English pop star by the name of Eames. He's a big deal, if the reactions of the reporters are any gauge, and a last minute addition to the event roster. Eames is handsome from a distance, though it's hard to make out details from far away. He's wearing a light blue button-down, black slacks, and a very strange hat.

After a minute spent wondering whether that really is a taxidermic mouse perched above the brim of Eames' hat, the faint sound of hissing catches Arthur's attention. He looks around, trying to locate the source, but can't figure out which direction it's coming from. Everyone else is captivated by Eames, reporters practically falling over themselves trying to get him to answer their questions (none of which are particularly unique or interesting from what Arthur hears), and nobody seems to notice anything amiss.

Arthur's seen this movie before: either he's Harry Potter and capable of talking to snakes, or he's started hearing things. Either possibility is troubling, which means it's time to investigate. He takes a few steps towards the reporters, then the stage, and that's when he realizes the sound is coming from the balloon. 

He squints up at the sky, sun bright in his eyes, and sure enough, the leafy part of the radish balloon is beginning to wobble a bit as its base shrinks almost imperceptibly. There's almost an hour left, and the rate at which the balloon is decompressing does not make Arthur comfortable about the situation at all.

He walks near the reporters into Krystyl's field of vision, and points meaningfully. After a few exasperating minutes of her looking anywhere but the radish, she finally glances upwards in time to see the top half of the balloon flop forward a bit. She waves over one of the event coordinators and covers her mike, holding a whispered conversation that eventually results in her leaving the stage.

Arthur hurries over to Krystyl's side. She smiles wryly and says, "You were right. Of course."

He shrugs. "It's what you pay me for."

Onstage, the event coordinator is moving from celebrity to celebrity, presumably informing them of the possibility of being crushed by a giant radish-balloon, if the speed at which they leave the stage is any indication. The only person that's left is Eames, who has been rambling for ten minutes about how he simply adores green foods but abhors purple ones.

After waiting politely at his side for a natural break in monologue that will evidently never come, the event coordinator taps Eames on the shoulder. By now, the radish has bent in half, rocking back and forth precariously in the wind. The reporters are murmuring amongst themselves and pointing, while a few in the front row have already vacated their seats (only to be replaced by enterprising photographers and reporters formerly in rows further back).

When Eames finally turns around to look over his shoulder, he freezes. A quiet falls over the field and suddenly the hissing is obvious, punctuated by a loud creak as the top half of the balloon begins to topple forward. The event coordinator grabs Eames' arm and tries to pull him out of his stupor, but he remains frozen in place, body stiff and unmoving. The coordinator gives a few more valiant tugs, but eventually abandons Eames in favor of running away and saving herself.

"Oh, for the love of—" Arthur breaks into a sprint, makes his way past the reporters to the stage, putting both hands underneath Eames' armpits and hauling him bodily out of his chair. Eames stumbles but finally breaks out of his trance, and Arthur wraps an arm around his waist to half-drag, half-run him out of the falling balloon's trajectory.

They make it a safe distance away before Eames trips and falls into Arthur, knocking them both down to the ground like dominos. As they lie there panting and watching the radish tumble the rest of the way down onto the table, Eames turns to Arthur and says, "I do believe you just saved my life."

Arthur tips his head back onto the grass and wonders if he can forward the dry-cleaning bill for a grass-stained Armani suit to an international pop star. "You're welcome."

* * * * *

Things happen pretty quickly after that. Eames' apparently useless entourage hurries over to fan him back to health, while Arthur gets up and brushes himself off, _sans_ entourage. A few minutes later, Krystyl tackles him back onto the ground again with a hug.

A flurry of reporters surround them all, snapping photos and asking Eames rapid-fire questions about his incredible brush with inflatable death. There's some polite interest in Arthur as savior, but once they figure out that he's nothing but a country singer's bodyguard, it wanes quickly. That doesn't spare him from a couple of awkward filmed interviews, however. Of course it has to be after his brand new suit is ruined that he ends up on camera—the universe would be far too fair a place if it were otherwise.

Arthur eventually makes his escape, heading back to his hotel room to investigate the damage to his clothing. As he's scrutinizing the green and brown streaks that have somehow made it across the length of his collar, he gets a call from a man who introduces himself as Dominick Cobb, Eames' manager.

"I heard about what happened. Very impressive," Cobb says. 

"Thanks," Arthur replies distractedly, finally giving up on his battered clothing and turning on the television instead. "Glad to help."

"Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders in addition to training and experience. I'm calling to offer you a job as Eames' fulltime bodyguard for his upcoming summer tour."

"I'm already booked for the next few months," Arthur responds, watching mournfully as interview footage of him appears on TMZ. His hair is hanging in his face and it looks like he's spent the better part of the day trying to wrestle something muddy to the ground before ultimately failing. He sounds mostly coherent, but it's all still very depressing.

"We'll pay you double what you're getting now."

Arthur turns off the TV and stands. "Sold."

* * * * *

Arthur breaks the news to Krystyl and her manager a few days later.

"Oh, Arthur," Krystyl says as she throws her arms around his waist. "I'm going to miss you."

"No you won't," Arthur says as he hugs her back. "I'm old and crotchety and never understood any of your text messages."

"But that's why," she replies, craning her head back to look at him. "You don't kiss my ass like everyone else does."

"Yeah, well." He steps back and ruffles her hair. "I don't kiss anyone's ass. You're no exception."

She smiles. "I know. And I hope you have fun on tour with Eames. I hear he's cool underneath the meat kilt."

"I don't even know where to begin with that sentence," Arthur says. "Now get out of here. I need to pack, and you need to use the twitters to facebook your tumbling."

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/vXzKY.png)


	2. The Appetizer

> While a set menu must come together to present a coherent message, each course must also possess the verve, intensity, and imagination to speak for itself. If any dish lacks vigor, guests will notice and inevitably wonder to themselves: was this a single misstep, or does the chef lack vision?  
>  - _The Land and Food We Live On_ , by Sonya Roy

"It's nice to finally meet you in the flesh." The man is blond and handsome, with alert blue eyes and a slightly harried air. "I'm Cobb." 

"Arthur." They shake hands. "And likewise."

"Thanks for agreeing to come out here a little early," Cobb says. "I figured since everyone's already at the bar I could show you around the tour buses, give you a sense of the security situation you'll be dealing with."

They're standing in a parking lot filled with tour buses and vans. The sun is low in the horizon but it's still light enough to see that the vehicles are large, clean, and well-maintained. They're certainly a far cry from the cramped, perpetually smoke-filled junkers Arthur had to endure when he first started touring with musicians, and he can't say he's sorry to see that particular phase of his career go.

Cobb shows him to the biggest tour bus, which is spray painted on the side with a bright Union Jack adorned with a diamond crown. The interior features a more muted color palette: soft gray carpet and cornflower blue curtains. It's the most spacious tour bus Arthur's ever been in, with a kitchenette, dining, and living room area, with doors leading to a closed off bathroom and bedroom.

"This is Eames' bus," Cobb says as he walks Arthur past the black leather couch and flatscreen TV to the bathroom. "This comes with a toilet, shower, and a privacy window that doesn't open past forty-five degrees."

"Is there a story behind that?" Arthur asks as he surveys the layout of the bathroom. It's generously sized, with room to move around between the shower, toilet, and sink.

"The last tour bus had a bigger window that opened to ninety degrees and one overenthusiastic fan tried to climb in." Cobb shakes his head. "Eames nearly had a heart attack when he discovered half a teenage girl dangling into his shower."

Arthur cranes his head up to peer at the privacy window, which is so high it's nearly flush with the ceiling. "That's a pretty small window. How big was the last one?"

"Five inches wider, barely." Cobb scrubs a hand across his face. "We had to hire a crew to come cut her out, like serious jaws of life shit. Goodbye bus deposit."

"Are a lot of his fans this—ah, inclined to get up close and personal?" There's no truly delicate way to ask whether someone's fans are all batshit crazy; for some reason, people tend to get offended when it's suggested that their particular brand of art attracts weirdos almost exclusively. It's been pointed out, however, that delicate is not Arthur's strongest suit to begin with.

"Thankfully not. Most of them are pretty good about respecting his space even when they do get excited, but then again, he's become an international star with all kinds of fans now." Cobb shrugs. "Some of them are bound to be nuts."

Arthur studies him. "You didn't hire me just because a teenager tried to climb through a window. What else is going on?"

"It's mostly been strange letters through mail and email. The usual, 'you suck and I don't get why you're famous' stuff coupled with a dash of homophobic slurs on the side." Cobb shakes his head. "There have been a few death threats, which Eames doesn't take seriously."

"What about you? Do you think there's something more there?"

"I hope not, but crazed stalkers aren't known for being predictable and—well, better safe and all that."

"Seems like we have similar philosophies, then," Arthur says. "Anything else I should know?"

"We've had some crowd control issues. Nothing malicious, mostly a matter of too many fans wanting to see him, get close to him—people get pushed around, trampled, and he's been nearly crushed a few times. No serious injuries, but you can imagine why we'd want to avoid any further incidents."

"Right," Arthur says, making a mental note. "Does Eames go out on his own a lot? Take anybody with him?"

"He used to go out all the time when he first started touring. But he's been doing this—oh, for almost ten years now, so I think some of the shine's worn off. These days he just eats a microwaved meal and goes straight to bed after a show."

Arthur prays that what Cobb's saying is true and not simply a reassuring line Eames is feeding him; following someone as they wander from bar to bar at one in the morning while stone cold sober is dull for the first hour, but approaches a special circle of hell after four. One of the upsides of guarding a minor is the set of severe limitations on their activities, and one of the upsides of Krystyl was that she was never particularly interested in rebelling against those limitations. 

Cobb leads him to the room in the back of the bus, which is dominated by a single king-size bed with a deep red coverlet. There's a striped area rug underneath, and two medium-sized closets built into a wall. At Arthur's expression, Cobb grins. "Oh, don't worry. Eames has another bus for his costumes."

Arthur chuckles as he circles the room. There are another two windows, one small and high, the other larger but painted shut. "I was about to say. Doesn't seem like he'd be able to fit all his hats in here, much less his clothes."

"I had to talk him down from renting two buses to one," Cobb says. "He claimed I was destroying his artistic soul by limiting him to seventy pairs of shoes rather than two hundred and forty."

Cobb takes him through the other buses one at a time, which are less sumptuous, featuring bunk-beds and much smaller TV's. They're all varying degrees of lived in—some messier than others—and the last stop is the bus Arthur's going to be staying in.

"You'll have one roommate—well, bus-mate—named Yusuf," Cobb explains. "You should get a chance to meet him at the party."

The bus is nice—nicer than any of the other buses he's lived in, especially given the fact that he's only going to have one roommate. The walls are a warm eggshell color, with cream carpeting and a brown couch in the main area. In the back are the bunk beds, a pair stacked on top of each other on either side of the bus, all with their own privacy curtains. The bunks are longer and less narrow than he's used to, and when he touches the mattress it's surprisingly firm.

"Let me know if you have any problems with the beds or the bus," Cobb says. "I can call the company we're renting from and have them send out guys to repair, replace, whatever you need."

"Thanks," Arthur replies, a little startled. He's used to the 'you break it and you bought it, even if it was broken to begin with' policy on buses. Guess this is one of the perks of trading up to an A-List star.

The bathroom is cramped but clean, the kitchenette outfitted with a decent array of dishes and a microwave. Arthur pauses when he opens the fridge door and spies a post-it on a can of haggis that reads in angry block letters, “Touch this and I will poison you, motherfucker!!!” The last word is underlined three times. Though why anyone would ever bother stealing haggis is beyond Arthur.

Cobb laughs nervously as he shuts the fridge door. “Yusuf and his last roommate weren't exactly on the... best of terms.”

Arthur wonders whether it was Yusuf or his (former) roommate who wrote the note. He decides it's probably not politic to ask on his first day if there's a high chance of being poisoned on his own bus.

Cobb glances at his watch. "The party should be in full swing by now. You wanna head over and meet everybody?"

"Sounds good." Arthur catches his reflection in the full-length mirror on the way out and smooths down his tie.

* * * * *

The bar hosting the kickoff party is nice: well-decorated and modern, but not trying too hard to be trendy. There are three levels: ground, a second floor, and a rooftop terrace. The first floor is filled with comfortable seating and long bars backlit with lavender neon lights, and the music is a rhythmic hum that allows for moderately shouty conversation. The second floor features a dance floor and the dais where the DJ sits, while the third floor returns to seating, bars, and slightly smoky conversations again.

"It's open bar, so you should probably meet everyone earlier in the night rather than later if you want them to actually remember you tomorrow," Cobb says. "And you've met Eames already, but I'd recommend saying hello—he always likes to get a little one-on-one time with the new people on tour. He's not much of a drinker though, so you don't have to worry about him being too trashed even if it takes a while to get to him."

"Good to know," Arthur says, a little relieved to hear that. If he never has to babysit another barely functional alcoholic musician again, it'll be too soon. "Anyone I should definitely meet?"

"Well, there's Yusuf, your future roommate. He's over there in the green striped shirt. And also—" A strikingly beautiful woman with dark hair approaches them and Cobb grins, reaching out to put an arm around her. "Arthur, this is my wife, Mal. Mal, this is the new bodyguard."

Arthur holds out a hand to shake and Mal takes it after a moment, seeming amused. "Very nice to meet you, ma'am."

"Ma'am? God, that makes me feel ancient." She eyes him critically before turning to Cobb and saying sweetly, "Could you get me a drink?"

"Of course, sweetheart." He kisses her on the cheek and nods at Arthur. "I'll let Eames know you're here."

The instant Cobb is out of earshot, Mal cocks her head to one side and says, "How old are you, and what is your favorite song by Eames?"

"Thirty-three and—" Arthur blinks. "What?"

"Your favorite song," she repeats, sounding impatient. "Any album, including B-sides. If you have more than one, list them in descending order chronologically."

_Shit_ , Arthur thinks. He knew he'd forgotten to do something to prepare for this gig, and it's the thing he always forgets: to listen to his client's music. "I'm sorry, I don't think Cobb mentioned to me what you do—"

"Oh, I am Eames' vocal coach," Mal replies. "Now your choices, please?"

"I—" Arthur sighs. "I don't know any of his songs."

"You don't—" Mal seems galled on Eames' behalf. "Have you turned on a radio in the past five years?"

"I don't listen to the radio." And then, because the truth is bound to get out sooner or later, he adds, "I don't like music." 

That stops her dead. "What?"

"I don't like music."

"I heard clearly the first time." She stares at him, aghast. "What I meant was: how can you work as a bodyguard to singers when you don't like music? Or is it only certain kinds you can't stand? Are you one of those snobs who doesn't consider anything but centuries-old string concerti to be real music?"

"No, it's all music." Arthur shrugs. "Everything sounds pretty much the same to me. Like noise and sometimes words on top."

"That's like saying you don't care for food or oxygen." Her voice is rising steadily. "That's like saying you _hate joy_."

"I don't hate music," he explains patiently, for the fifty millionth time. "Or hate joy, for that matter. It's just not my thing, that's all."

She continues to stare at Arthur, flabbergasted, and then backs away slowly. "I need to—I should—Dom, did you say something? I'll be right over."

Arthur sighs again as she disappears into the crowd; he's making friends already. 

He turns to scan the room, noting Cobb in the corner speaking to Eames. They seem deep in conversation, Mal's forgotten martini in Cobb's left hand, and Arthur decides to wait for a better moment to join in later.

He goes to one of the counters and orders a vodka martini with a mooth Belvedere and an outstanding Dolin vermouth; normally he'd stick with whatever imported beer's available, but an open bar is far too good to pass up. The man Cobb had identified as Yusuf is only a few stools down, so Arthur makes his way over to introduce himself.

"Fresh blood, nice," Yusuf says. "I heard you saved Eames' life."

"I highly doubt his life was in actual danger," Arthur says. "But yeah, I saved him from some very uncomfortable bruising at least."

Yusuf chuckles. "Should have known he'd blow it out of proportion. The way he tells it, you razed an army and leaped tall buildings to gallantly sweep him to safety."

"In the end, we were both swept right off our feet in a very romantic trip and fall," Arthur replies. "His version sounds better though, I guess."

"His version always sounds better." Yusuf grins. "Have you gotten a chance to speak with him? I know he was dying for another rendezvous with his savior. Perhaps you can nobly preserve him from the terror of a warm drink or stale olives."

"Oh yeah," Arthur replies dryly as he glances across the room to where Eames is holding court with an enraptured crowd. "After this, I'll be sure to rescue him from his pit of loneliness and despair."

"So Cobb informed me that you're to be my new bus-mate," Yusuf says. "I hope you don't mind the smell of formaldehyde. I do try to ventilate, but you know how the scent of embalming fluid can cling."

"That's—" Arthur pauses. "I think Cobb forgot to mention what exactly you do."

"Oh, officially, I'm in charge of the roadies. You might even call me," Yusuf pauses to guffaw to himself, "Road Head."

Arthur stares. "Yeah, I'm not going to call you that."

"Fair enough." Yusuf jerks his chin at Arthur's nearly empty glass. "Fresh drink? It's on me."

Arthur chuckles. "Sure. As long as it's on you." While they wait for their drinks, he asks, "So have you mostly done tours in Europe?" 

"Oh, I'm not a professional or anything--I signed on because Eames wanted me to," Yusuf replies. "Seemed like a more fun way to pass the summer than being cooped up in a lab, so here I am."

"Cooped up in a lab?"

"Ah, yes, well, I'm technically a chemist. I do scientific research, chemistry, things," Yusuf declares airily. "Dull stuff to explain. Duller to hear, I'm sure."

"So, Eames fished you out of a test tube somewhere to haul heavy and expensive equipment for him across the United States?"

"Well, not quite. Funny story actually--Eames and I've known each other since Uni. Good bloke, a little nutty, but not bad on the whole." Yusuf shrugs. "Never thought my old chem partner would end up singing around the world in glow-in-the-dark-undies, but there you have it."

Arthur sighs a little. "Nobody I knew growing up did anything interesting. Well, there was that one neighbor who was the first governor to resign within a week of taking office on account of some very disturbing photos involving fish, but that's it."

"I find fish rather disturbing in general, personally. But yes, I suppose I lucked out on this one. Touring is quite fun and I've always wanted to visit all the Wal-Mart's in America." Arthur can't tell whether Yusuf is joking or not (about the fish, or the Wal-Mart's), so he takes a sip of his drink instead. "Anyway, I should run—there's someone I've been avoiding all night and they seem to have spotted me. Nice to meet you, Arthur." Yusuf claps him on the shoulder and then disappears into the crowd a moment later.

Arthur finishes the rest of his drink and considers his next move. Cobb's no longer talking to Eames, who is now graciously accepting what looks like a long island iced tea from one of his entourage, and Arthur's trying to decide whether he wants to make his way over for an audience now or not. He's saved from having to make the decision by Cobb, who ambles up to him, a little more red-faced than before.

"Enjoying the party?" Cobb asks.

"Sure," Arthur says. "Although I think your wife thinks I'm a demon who has come to rob the world of music and joy."

"Did you list _Wizards and Wings_ as one of your favorite Eames songs?" Cobb replies, seeming wholly unsurprised. "Or _Dancing with Lady Luck_? The second one you can recover from if you lie and tell her you've seen the error of your ways, but the first you'll never escape."

"Actually, I told her I don't like music."

"Really?" Cobb stares hard at Arthur to determine whether he's serious, and then blinks. "Huh. That's weird."

"It's good to know that people are so accepting of differences here."

"Well, Eames probably won't care. In fact, he'll probably find the irony hilarious and tell everyone he knows about his delightful new bodyguard who hates music."

"I don't actually hate—" Arthur sighs and gives up. "Anyway, speaking of Eames, you might want to keep an eye on him. His entourage has been keeping him well-lubricated."

"Strange," Cobb replies, craning his neck around to confirm that Eames is indeed drinking. "He usually turns those down unless he's nervous and psyching himself up for something. He's paranoid about the paparazzi catching him sloppy."

"Eames? Nervous?" Arthur says, disbelievingly. "The man performs in front of thousands of strangers wearing outfits made from stuffed animals and Styrofoam packing peanuts. What's left to be nervous about after that?"

Cobb shrugs. "Don't ask me what goes on in that brain. I just manage the talent as best I can."

Arthur chuckles. "I guess that's all any of us can do."

"Let me finish introducing you around," Cobb says as he leads Arthur upstairs to the roof. 

He introduces Arthur to the rest of the roadies, the makeup artists, the costume people, and Eames' other two bodyguards, Casper and Flowers. Casper is an enormous man whose stern demeanor morphs into that of a living teddy bear the moment he smiles, and Flowers is an easy six foot three with a buzz cut and flannel short-sleeves in summer.

"Flowers, huh?" Arthur says.

"You got something against flowers?" she replies, eyes narrowing.

"Nope," Arthur replies, putting his hands up as he takes a step back. "Not me. Love flowers. They are my favorite."

Eventually, Cobb drifts off to take an important phone call, passing his barely touched drink onto Arthur. Arthur tries to protest that he shouldn't have any more, but Cobb's gone before he can and really, it'd be a crime to waste a perfectly good drink. Even if he's already had more than is probably prudent.

Arthur wanders through the crowd, stopping to chat with various people he's met throughout the night. Eventually he's introduced to Ariadne, who is Cobb's assistant, and whose primary responsibilities include managing Eames' blog, twitter, facebook, and website. Apparently, Eames has been banned from posting on the internet through any of his official channels.

"So how are you liking working with Eames?" Arthur says, hoping that she'll be the one to finally spill the details of the so-called 'incident' that got Eames' internet privileges revoked. "Fun so far?"

"It's pretty cool. I'm learning a lot and seeing firsthand how the music industry actually works." She pauses. "Kind of thought there'd be more drug-fueled orgies, though. Or, you know. Any orgies."

"You sound almost disappointed."

"What? Me? Disappointed?" Ariadne scoffs. "That's--why would I be--it's not like I fantasize about rolling around in a sweaty tangle of limbs, no idea where I begin and the second or third or fifteenth person begins. That sounds totally--gross and not hot. I mean, not sexy hot. I suppose it'd have to be hot hot, since we'd be sweating while not wearing any clothes, so."

"Yeah," he says slowly. "I can tell you're totally not into the idea of orgies or anything."

"Right, so." She takes a quick sip of her drink. "Have you spoken to Eames yet? He's been looking for you, I think."

"People keep telling me that," he says, "but I'm pretty sure it's not true."

"I don't know," she says doubtfully. "When Cobb first told him that you'd signed on to be his bodyguard, he wanted me to tweet links to your website, video footage, and every photo of you in existence online. Your website is a piece of crap, by the way, I think my computer almost got a virus just loading it."

Arthur sighs. "I keep meaning to get someone to update it."

"I'd be happy to transform it into something that accurately reflects your excellent services for a small fee. I charge by the hour with a five-hundred dollar deposit upfront, nonrefundable."

"Is this what the sales equivalent of negging feels like?" Arthur wonders aloud.

"Hey, I'm just saying that I could make your website a true work of art, that's all. Check out Eames' online presence if you have any doubts." She passes him a business card with her name, email, and a website address on the back. "Speak of the devil."

Eames, who had been all the way on the other side of the rooftop terrace, is now walking towards them. Arthur is struck, suddenly, by how handsome Eames is without a distractingly silly hat on.

"Hey, Eames," Ariadne says. "What's shakin'?"

"You are, my dear. I saw you from across the room and it simply made my heart pound." Eames bends down to give her a kiss on the cheek while she snorts.

"That doesn't even make sense, you big flirt." Ariadne pinches his side, causing Eames to let out an injured yelp. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Oh, certainly more than is wise," he replies, eying his glass.

"Well, that means I need to catch up," she declares. "Arthur, want anything?"

He declines, body already suffused with an alcoholic warmth, and is left standing alone with Eames when she takes off for the bar. 

"Arthur, what a pleasure to see you again." Eames leans in for a kiss on the cheek. Arthur, who'd been expecting a handshake, is caught off-guard by how good he smells, and the surprisingly alluring heat of him. "I'm so happy you decided to take me on."

Arthur has been working as a bodyguard for a long time now, and over the course of his career he's developed several strict rules: 1, never offer non-security-related advice unless a client asks for it explicitly, and even then, tread lightly. 2, never directly help a client commit a crime—just take the night off instead. 3, never, ever sleep with a client or their loved ones (this includes ex-loved ones). 

The last is one he's learned the hard way, based on not one but two disastrous firsthand experiences. The first involved too much alcohol (which is part of why Arthur has a rule governing permissible drinking levels while in a client's company, on-duty or off, which he has already broken tonight) and the second involved no mind-altering substances, merely an embarrassingly earnest belief that _this time would be different_. There was a third experience that resulted not in firing, but in a simple decline to renew a contract, and that—while not something that could be described as disastrous—was probably the most painful one of them all. 

The entertainment industry's a hard one, filled with unconventional people willing to sacrifice everything to the altar of fame and money. Arthur doesn't really belong in this world, he knows, which is part of what makes him so great at his job, so easy to trust. But even with a relatively clear eye, it's hard not to get sucked in by the glittering, beautiful things all around him, by the men and women who live to be adored. It's hard not to want them, not to want them to want him, not to be lured into the mobius strip of sex and validation where all that drives their mutual attraction is ego. 

It would be easy to lean into Eames and flirt back, to get closer and see what's underneath the strange, glittery peacock shirt he's wearing. But Arthur's too old to be getting trapped in a maze of ego-boosting fuckbuddies anymore. And he didn't walk away from a client he genuinely liked to get fired for fucking one he barely knows.

"I'm glad to be here," Arthur says, keeping his back straight and tone professional. "I look forward to working with you."

"Do you? How excellent." Eames takes a long sip of what looks—and smells—like a rather strong gin and tonic. "Are you enjoying the party?"

"Yeah, it's a nice place." Arthur glances around and notes distantly that his balance and perception have become more than slightly impaired. "Good people." 

"Good, that's—that's very good." Eames clears his throat. "You're making me look absolutely dowdy beside you, by the way—are three-piece-suits what I should expect from here on out?"

"I like to be properly dressed for work," Arthur says. "If you'd rather I wear something else when I come in next—"

"Oh no, that's quite alright. You are free to wear whatever you'd like—I'm certainly not one to censor sartorial expression." Eames moves a little closer, and Arthur can see that the pattern on Eames' shirt is actually made up of cut-outs forming a peacock fan, revealing a wide expanse of well-defined chest and abs beneath. A part of Arthur wants to reach out and touch, possibly lick at the intriguing flash of nipple he sees. He promptly quashes that part.

"Thanks," Arthur says, meaning for it to sound sincere. It comes out flat instead.

Eames smiles, but it looks a little strained as he takes another sip of his drink. "I feel like singing," he says suddenly. "Any special requests?"

"Uh—" Arthur is saved from having to answer by several other people around them leaning in to enthusiastically encourage this. Song titles are thrown out—none of which he recognizes except for _Wizards and Wings_ —until Eames eventually settles on a song called _Land of Smiles_. 

The music in the bar is lowered, and a crowd gathers around as Eames takes a deep breath and begins to sing acapella, hand tapping out a beat against his right thigh.

It's—well, it's fine, Arthur supposes. It's not especially unpleasant to hear, or at least no more so than anything else is, and Eames seems to be doing pretty well if the rapt attention of the whole room is any indication of his skill. He has a powerful stage presence, Arthur notes, and his voice is very loud. 

Eventually the song comes to an end and Arthur claps politely while everyone else hoots and cheers. Eames bows, grinning, not bothering to affect a false layer of modesty. 

"That was great, Eames," Arthur says when the cheering dies down and Eames turns to him expectantly. "Really fantastic."

Instead of basking in the generic compliments Arthur has successfully delivered to dozens of musicians the world over, Eames studies him intently. "Really?"

"Of course." Arthur pastes a smile onto his face and forces it not to waver under Eames' scrutiny. "You have an amazing voice." Usually at this point most people would take the validation and go, content to accept the praise without further examination.

But of course that's not what happens here. "What do you like about my voice, exactly?"

"It's—" _Shit_ , Arthur thinks. Shit shit shit on a stick, shit. "It's very loud."

"You like the loudness of my voice," Eames repeats, slowly.

"Yes, because it sounds like—" All the phrases Arthur's vodka-soaked mind can summon up are painfully obvious and purple lies—things like, 'it sounds like bells tinkling in the wind' or 'it sounds like a sunny day in Idaho.' "Like something good."

Eames' mouth flattens to a line. "Right."

"Like whiskers on kittens," Arthur says, not even sure what the words coming out of his mouth are anymore. Why hadn't he just done the research and found genre-appropriate comments to paraphrase from magazine articles and reviews? _Because I can't look at half-naked photos of Eames for too long without getting a boner, that's why_ , a part of him whispers. And unfortunately for Arthur, there are half-naked photos of Eames _everywhere_ online. "Like a spoonful of sugar."

"Now you're just spouting Julie Andrews lyrics at me." _Who the hell is Julie Andrews?_ Arthur wonders. "You know, it's perfectly fine if you don't care for my music," Eames continues, even though from where Arthur's standing, it doesn't seem fine at all. "I know it's not to everyone's taste, but there's no need for you to—"

"I don't like your music or anybody else's," Arthur blurts out, and winces. Eames stares. "What I mean is, it's not you specifically. It's—I don't like music. Listening to it."

"Now I know you're having me on. Everybody—" Eames stops and then peers at Arthur's face, eyes widening. "But you aren't, are you?"

Arthur takes a deep breath, trying to figure out if there's a way for him to salvage this situation or his job. Probably not. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say—I mean, I respect you as an artist and I—"

"Excuse me," Eames interrupts, ducking his face away. "I need to be—elsewhere."

Arthur watches Eames practically break into a sprint to get away from him and thinks: _there goes my first and last A-list celebrity client._

* * * * *

The next day, Arthur reports to work fifteen minutes early, because he's never been the type to tap out when there was still some faint hope, even when circumstances seemed irretrievably dire. If Eames wants to fire him he can go ahead and do it, but until that point comes Arthur will hang on and do his job no matter how awkward it might be.

Things are excruciatingly awkward.

"Hey," Cobb says with a small, sympathetic smile when Arthur gets out of the taxi. "Those all your bags? Let me get one of the guys to take them over to your bus."

"Thanks," Arthur says as he parts with his suitcases somewhat reluctantly. "Is there something you needed me for?"

"Well, we're going to be heading out onto the road soon. It's only about an hour's drive to our first stop, so I figured this would be a good time for you and Eames to hammer out the details of what kind of security you're going to be doing," Cobb says in a tone that means this isn't negotiable. "He's in his bus right now and expecting you. Might be a little hungover, but nothing too bad."

"So I'm going to ride with him for the next hour," Arthur says. "That's—that's great."

"Good." Cobb claps Arthur on the back. "See you in an hour."

Arthur finds Eames slumped on the couch wearing a pair of distressed jeans and a tight black shirt with an abstract red design across the front. His face is pinched and tired, his hair bed-rumpled, and still he's one of the most devastatingly attractive men Arthur's ever seen. Arthur feels more than a little resentful.

"Hello?" he says when he steps inside.

"What—oh, Arthur. You're here already." Eames straightens and runs a hand through his hair. "I must've—what time is it?"

"Quarter to six. We're gonna be getting a move on soon." As if on cue, the engine of the bus starts up with a hum. "Cobb thought it'd be a good idea for me to go over my policies with you, give you a rundown of what I'll be doing."

"Yes, of course, sounds very reasonable." Eames manages a wan smile. "Please, go ahead."

Arthur nods and allows himself to slip into old military habits, taking a deep breath and clasping his hands behind his back. He focuses on a point just over Eames' shoulder and begins to recite from memory. "I'm here to guard your body from outside physical threats. Note the use of 'outside' and 'body' as qualifiers. That means I'm not here to monitor how much you drink, what you drink, what you eat, or anything else you might to do yourself. I'm also not here to protect you from things you don't want to hear or to beat up people you don't like. My work is strictly defensive and my first plan of action is always to get you out of a situation in which you might be hurt as quickly as possible. Barring that, I'll use my training to neutralize any threats to your physical safety. Most of the time it doesn't come to that--people usually back down once they realize I'm not messing around."

Arthur takes another breath and continues, "How much you want me around is up to you. I can accompany you wherever you wish—restaurants, the movies, clubs—and I'll maintain whatever distance you're comfortable with, whether that's at the same table or two tables over. Regardless, I'll always be at the ready and follow you anywhere inside a building, including the bathroom if they're public and there's a place for me to stand outside the stall. If not, I'll wait outside. What you decide to do in said bathrooms is up to you.

"I keep my mouth closed. You can call any of my past clients to confirm, but I promise you the height of discretion. There's also a confidentiality clause in my contract if you'd like more than just my word. I will say nothing to tabloids, reporters, even my own mother, about what you choose to do with your time.

"I also don't offer my opinion unless you ask for it. The only time I might give unsolicited advice is when I think you're heading into a situation with a high probability of physical danger. Otherwise, where you choose to go and who you choose to fraternize with is your business, not mine."

Eames nods, and then says slowly, "So basically, you will speak only when spoken to, is that right?"

Arthur's lip twitches. "If that's what you want."

"Are there any other options? Because I find that one to be completely unsuitable." Eames raises his head, and his expression is intent, thoughtful—all signs of being sleepy or hungover abruptly gone. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not looking to surround myself with a cowering group of yes-men to lull me into a complacent stupor. I like employees and coworkers with their own minds and opinions, ones they are willing to share with me without treating me like I'm a cross between a dim-witted child and deranged cult leader." Eames leans forward. "You took action the day we met, and that's why Cobb hired you--because you don't need someone's say-so to think independently."

"I see," Arthur says.

"I hope you understand that you don't work directly for me, but for Cobb. And though it may seem merely an abstract difference more than a practical one, I can't fire you--only he can." Eames stands up. "I know I'm not the easiest person to be around constantly—I can be temperamental, overdramatic, and generally insufferable. Part of Cobb's job is to protect me from some of the exceedingly poor decisions which I might make in a fit of pique, and that includes the hiring and firing of most of the people on tour with us. Particularly the firing."

Eames looks Arthur dead in the eye. "I don't want you to spend the next three months with me in constant fear for your job if you happen to disagree with me and make it known. I don't want you to walk on eggshells for fear of my bad moods. Perhaps you won't believe me when I say this, but the only reason Cobb would ever fire you is if you actively put me in harm's way or abandoned me to it. He takes my safety extremely seriously and we are both aware that we pulled you away from other employment. We've seen your CV, spoken to your references, and all we've heard was how terrifyingly competent you are, and how lucky we are to have you."

"That's—" Arthur nods, once. He's not fully convinced—he's heard plenty of pretty speeches from clients before—but it's a promising start. "Thank you. I will do my best to live up to your expectations."

The corners of Eames' mouth flick up, briefly, as he holds a hand out to shake. "I look forward to working with you."

Arthur hesitates only a moment before taking it. "Likewise, Mr. Eames."

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/oLI17.png)


	3. The Soup

> It is my firm belief that every chef—indeed, every person—has within them multiple stories worth telling. It can be the story of a childhood, of the home one grew up in. Or it can be the story of growth and change, of leaving comfort behind for a new world. 
> 
> Regardless of how generic a story idea might seem, what makes each one unique is the details a chef brings from their history, training, and taste. The ingredients we use, the methods we employ, the way we fashion our food to be aesthetically pleasing—all of these choices reflect our pasts and our individuality as surely as our calloused fingertips.  
>  - _The Land and Food We Live On_ , by Sonya Roy

**Seattle**

"So what's your deal?"

Arthur looks up from unpacking his suitcase. "My deal?"

"Yeah. Life status, trajectory, all that?" At Arthur's blank expression, Yusuf adds, "Married, single? Gay, straight, flexible? Kids?"

Arthur rocks back on his heels and raises an eyebrow. "So that's how we're going to do this?"

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, we're going to be sharing a very small space for the next few months," Yusuf says, adding a green liquid to his beaker, which turns the mixture inside an alarming fuchsia color. "I prefer some warning that I might unexpectedly come back to a bus filled with screaming infants. Or screaming adults, as the case may be."

"You've seen our sardine-sized bunks, right?" Arthur resumes unpacking. "I can barely fit myself in one of those, much less someone else at the same time."

"You truly believe cramped quarters have ever stopped anyone in the history of mankind from having a go?"

"No." Arthur sighs. "I try not to think about what might have happened on those mattresses before I got there."

Yusuf chuckles. "Probably for the best. Although you still haven't answered my question."

"Single, gay, no kids." Arthur pulls one of his most prized possessions—carefully packed—from his suitcase. "You?"

"Married three years, straight, no kids." Yusuf waggles his gloved ring finger. "Don't usually wear a ring because it could lead to some nasty chemical reactions."

"And your wife's okay with you being on the road for three months?"

"Are you kidding me? She's bloody thrilled," Yusuf replies. "It gives her a chance to air out the house and be free of all my 'filthy fumes.' Not to mention that absence makes the heart grow fonder—and randier."

Arthur looks up from unwrapping and raises an eyebrow. "You'll give me a heads up if she's coming over to visit, right?"

"Of course. She does enjoy visiting the States—nothing excites her so much as a twenty-four hour 7-Eleven—but she shouldn't be by for more than a week and a half." Yusuf adds a drop of pale blue liquid to his beaker and a mushroom cloud of smoke billows up. The resultant smell is terrifyingly foul, and Arthur hopes that everything he owns isn't going to end up tinged with that odor. "Is that a bobblehead doll?"

"Yes," Arthur says as he sets his newly unwrapped doll on the end table beside the couch. "It's Sonya Roy."

"Perhaps you could give me a clue as to whether she's someone I should recognize from the telly, movies, or another form of entertainment?" Yusuf furrows his brow behind his goggles. "This may shock you, but chemists aren't known for being terribly well-versed in pop culture or anything that might be described as 'fun.'"

Arthur's about to reply when his cell phone goes off. "It's Cobb," he says to Yusuf before picking up. "Hello?"

"There's been a change of plans," Cobb says, and Arthur can hear the muffled hubbub of voices in the background. "You can scope out the arena later. Your driver is going to pull over and a taxi's on its way to take you to the hotel."

"Sure thing," Arthur says as he stands up. "Something happen?"

"I'll explain everything once you arrive."

* * * * *

When Arthur reaches the hotel, a large crowd has gathered outside in the courtyard. As he gets closer, he finds Eames at the center, signing autographs and posing for photos. There aren't any paparazzi, but Arthur can feel the frenzy of the people all jostling for a closer look, hemming Eames in.

He makes his way over to where Cobb and Mal are standing at the front steps. "Someone snuck into Eames' room," Cobb says, sounding tired. "Casper and Flowers are sweeping the floor to make sure there's no one else. When Eames came downstairs to wait, this happened."

"He should go back inside," Arthur says, scanning the scene; there have to be at least two hundred people surrounding Eames, and more are accumulating with every passing minute. "There's too many people. It isn't safe for him to be trapped like that."

"Eames hates saying no to fans," Cobb says. "He'll sign shit till his hand falls off."

"He can be very generous and sweet, Eames," Mal says. "Which is why you must go over there and drag him away, whether he wants to go or not."

Arthur wades through the crowd to where Eames is kneeling, signing a napkin for a third grader. "Time to go," Arthur says as he's finishing. "Sorry, but that's the last one."

"Arthur," Eames starts. "Surely—"

"You've got a phone interview in ten minutes with _Rolling Stone_ ," Arthur says flatly. "They don't wait. And if they do—that goes in the article, too."

To Eames' credit, it only takes him a second to catch on. "Well, I'm afraid if I must, I must." Eames stands and projects his voice to the rest of the crowd, "I hope to see you all at the show tomorrow."

There are disappointed grumblings as they leave, but Arthur manages to herd Eames without further incident all the way into the hotel lobby. Flowers meets them for the ride up in the elevator.

"Was that really necessary?" Eames asks once the elevator doors shut. " _Rolling Stone_?"

"You have a rehearsal in less than two hours," Arthur says as he checks his watch. "Have you had anything to eat yet?"

"Yes," Eames says after a moment, a little sulkily. Over the top of his head, Flowers shakes her head _no_. Arthur sighs internally; in addition to awkward sexual tension, Eames is going to be the kind of client that lies to him. Great.

Casper, Dom, and Mal are all waiting on the seventeenth floor when they arrive.

"Arthur, we booked you the room adjoining Eames'," Dom says. "Casper, you're by the elevators. Flowers, you're next to Eames' room on the other side, but not adjoining."

"This is getting to be a bit overmuch," Eames says. "I don't need three bodyguards around me as I sleep—that's ridiculous."

"There is nothing ridiculous about making sure you're safe," Dom says. "Besides, Flowers and Casper are going to be on call. Arthur's the only one on the clock officially."

"I know I agreed to this, but this is starting to feel—excessive." Eames smooths down the front of his shirt, then runs a hand through his hair.

"You just got mobbed in Seattle, Eames," Arthur says. "If it's like this here, imagine what it'll be like in some of the other places we visit."

"I wouldn't call it a mob. I'd call it a large gathering of people who happen to share a passionate interest in my music."

"Whenever you have a large, passionate crowd of people, there's an opportunity for bad things to happen. It doesn't even have to be violent—it could be as simple as someone tripping and falling into someone else, who interprets it as a shove, which sets off a whole chain reaction," Arthur says. "And someone could end up falling into you, which causes you to sprain your ankle, get a concussion—then what happens to your show? Do you hobble around all night? Sit on a stool and try not to fall over?"

"That seems rather farfetched," Eames says, but he sounds less certain. 

"Look, this is part of my job. Part of what you hired me to do," Arthur says. "Let me be the asshole to make the call and say no to your fans so you don't have to."

"You are rather a bossy sort, aren't you?" Eames sniffs, but there's a grudging note of respect in his voice. Or maybe that's just Arthur's wishful thinking.

"Listen to the professional," Cobb pipes up. "He knows what he's talking about."

Casper steps out of one of the hotel rooms and joins them. "The floor's all clear."

"Great," Cobb says. "I'll have the hotel bring up our bags and let them know that if there are any more incidents like this, we'll be leaving and never coming back."

The porters arrive with baggage and keycards, and after Arthur drops his things off in his room (which is gigantic, plush, and features a fantastic view of the Space Needle) he knocks on the door to Eames' room.

"Come in."

Arthur enters to find Eames sprawled on the bed, eyes closed. He doesn't seem to be asleep. "Should I come back later?"

"No, it's fine, I shouldn't nap anyway." Eames eases himself up and stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a band of tanned and tattooed skin. Arthur forces himself to look away, because noticing such things is not appropriate. "Is there something I should be doing right now, in your professional opinion?"

"Security-wise? No," Arthur replies. "If it's okay with you, though, I was thinking I could stay in here a while. I can sit in the corner, do the crossword. You won't even notice I'm here."

Eames chuckles. "My own personal babysitter. Alright. Make yourself at home."

Arthur settles himself in an armchair by the door and waits a few minutes before asking, "So what's really going on?"

Eames stiffens. "Beg pardon?"

"Something's got you guys freaked," Arthur says calmly as he folds over his newspaper. "Random fans sneaking into your hotel room shouldn't be this big a deal unless something else is going on. I can't do my job unless you tell me what that something is."

Eames is silent for a moment before he says, quietly, "I may have had a—very minor incident with a stalker."

"Is this the first one you've had?"

"Not exactly," Eames says, somewhat reluctantly. "I've had several over the years. Lonelier and perhaps more desperate than the average fan in searching for—well, whatever they were searching for, but mostly harmless."

"Until the most recent one."

"There were some threats. Some break-ins. A bit of property damage, and well—" Eames clears his throat. "Charges had to be filed. He's in prison now, and all that unpleasantness has been dealt with."

Arthur leans forward and asks gently, "He get violent?"

"A bit, but hardly—" Eames coughs. "It's nothing I couldn't handle. I wasn't in any serious—"

"Eames." Arthur stands. "You're a musician, not a trained fighter. And being attacked isn't—"

"I don't need your pity," Eames says harshly, standing up as well. "I'm not—I won't have you thinking of me as helpless, or—"

"I don't think of you as helpless, and I don't pity you." Arthur crosses the room. "You are my client, and I am here to protect you from crowds, nutjobs, and random drunk guys. It's not weakness to delegate, or to pay someone to work for you. That's why you have Dom, and Mal, and Yusuf. That's why you have me."

"Yes, of course, I simply—" Eames avoids meeting Arthur's eyes. "Why should I be afraid of some lunatic writing deranged letters? I should be able to take care of myself, I should—"

"Hey." Arthur touches Eames' shoulder. "Violence doesn't come easily or naturally to most of the population, despite popular misconceptions to the contrary. And that's a good thing, that's the way it should be."

"I suppose there's all sorts of unexamined issues relating to the presentation of my masculinity and ability to defend myself bound up in this, aren't there?" Eames smiles wryly as he finally looks at Arthur. Even with some crooked teeth his smile is quite—something, Arthur thinks as he lets his hand fall to his side.

"I don't know anything about that." Arthur takes a step back. "Except that if everyone were good at fighting, I'd probably be out of a job."

Eames chuckles again, then rubs the back of his neck when his stomach lets out a loud rumble. "Perhaps I should order some room service after all. You want anything?"

"No, I'm good." Arthur retreats to the far corner of the room. "But thanks."

* * * * *

As a performer, Eames is relentless, meticulous, and has a very clear vision of what he wants. Arthur finishes scouting out the arena Eames will be performing in and takes the opportunity to catch the second half of his rehearsal.

Eames' setlist consists of twenty-five songs divided into three acts, with two optional encores depending on crowd reception and how tired he is on a given night. The first and last acts of the show feature heavy choreography, including various groups of male and female dancers, backup singers, and a full band. During the middle act of the show, all those people go away except for pieces of the band as Eames takes turns playing the piano, the guitar, the bass, and the harmonica.

Arthur's toured with plenty of musicians and bands who don't bother singing, running through all the choreography, or hitting all the cues during rehearsals. Eames, however, is clearly someone who doesn't do anything by halves—doesn't walk through the choreography or hum through the music. The only thing that will bring him to a screeching halt is even the tiniest fluctuation in the quality of the sound—not that Arthur can tell, of course, but every half hour or so Eames will hold a hand up and say something like, "Lee, the G's coming across a bit flat, is that the microphone or the speakers—"

"He really puts everyone through their paces," Arthur comments as he joins Cobb in the front row. During a brief interlude, the backup dancers are guzzling water and panting while Eames jogs from one side of the stage to the other, trying to determine the cause of the mysterious flat G.

"I get tired just watching him sometimes," Cobb replies. "How's security look in this place?"

"Pretty good. Large, but manageable. Helps to have the extra day to scout everything out." Arthur pauses. "You should have told me about the stalker."

"I didn't think he was an issue anymore. He's behind bars."

"Yeah, Eames mentioned." Arthur glances over. "You still should have told me before. So there'd be no surprises."

"It's been a while. And I didn't want to raise an alarm for no reason," Cobb says levelly. "I didn't think it was important."

"I'm the one that decides whether something security-related is important or not." Arthur takes a breath and then softens his tone. "I mean, that's why you hired me."

"Okay, I hear you. No more surprises." Cobb huffs a soft laugh. "Eames was right. You really are the 'bossy sort.'"

Onstage, the G situation is resolved to Eames' satisfaction and he claps his hands as he heads back into the middle of the stage. He cues the music and says, "Let's take it from the top, everybody."

* * * * *

"What's this?" Arthur asks when Cobb hands him a ticket.

"Front row seat to Eames' performance tonight," Cobb says. "Casper and Flowers will be handling the security so you can sit tight and enjoy the show." 

Cobb is of the opinion that Arthur needs to sit through at least one full show to fully understand what the security risks during concerts might be in the future. Arthur isn't exactly wild about the idea—he's already watched several rehearsals including a full dress, and god knows how many more he's going to see during the rest of the tour—but Cobb's the boss.

"It's nothing like the rehearsals," Cobb says, perhaps sensing Arthur's skepticism. "Trust me."

Arthur goes to his seat dutifully, reading his newspaper while he waits for the show to start. The earplugs he's wearing muffle most of the noise around him as fans file in (mostly female, ages ranging from barely pubescent to mothers in their sixties, along with a fair showing of gay men and the occasional straight guy that got dragged there by a date). By the time all of the roughly 16,000 seats are filled, there's a palpable energy buzzing around the arena.

The opening act is a girl group called the Littrells that Cobb also manages. The audience claps politely once the band's done, but it isn't until they leave and the lights dim that the cheering really starts.

The opening bars of Eames' first song, _Let Me Make You Smile_ , begin to play, tempo slowed to a crawl as individual spotlights get turned on one by one, illuminating the dark silhouettes of backup dancers behind the semi-transparent curtain. Arthur can feel the energy level of the crowd winding higher and higher as each dancer's silhouette is revealed, cresting over when the stage goes abruptly dark again, music ceasing for five long, painful seconds before Eames hits his opening notes, " _Let me_ …"

Like a river bursting through a dam, the crowd goes into a frenzy of cheering, waves of sound and energy crashing over the arena as pyrotechnic sparks shoot up onstage. Behind the fiery illumination, Eames rises up on a circular platform, head bowed and arms crossed in the straightjacket he has on.

The fans start screaming even more wildly, but Eames seems almost unaware, head still bowed as the curtain goes up and the backup dancers come into view. It isn't until the curtain's fully risen and the pyrotechnics are done that Eames slowly raises his head, staring out into the crowd with an intensity that nearly takes Arthur's breath away. " _Let me_ ," he croons into the mike, " _entertain you_ …"

The band starts to play and Eames begins to sing in earnest, backup dancers swarming around him in synchronized worship, crawling up and down his body to undo the buckles of his straightjacket. Once all the buckles are undone, he throws it off to reveal black leather pants and a vest made up of what appear to be chains, the vee down to his belly button, revealing all the planes of his muscular chest. Arthur knows they're not chains—merely intricately threaded silvery fibers—but from a distance, it's impossible to tell.

None of this is a surprise to Arthur—not the lights, the sounds, or the choreography—but rehearsal couldn't have prepared him for the soaring energy of the crowd, lifting him up as they strain towards Eames. In return, Eames seems electric, a light-source of his very own, voice and gaze reaching out to caress every single seat in the sold-out arena, enveloping the place in buzzing, helpless rapture.

Arthur finds himself carried along with it as song after song plays, blinking in mild confusion when Eames dashes backstage, leaving his background dancers to perform a group routine. The curtain's come down in order for the second act's set to be put up while Eames guzzles down three bottles of water and changes into a new costume. It's not a surprise and yet Arthur can't help the mild feeling of dismay, of restlessness watching anonymous dancers grind up against each other, of anticipation for Eames' return.

Then the curtain rises and the new set is revealed. It's a fairly simple one, with an oversized set of triptych tailor's mirrors in the center of the mostly bare stage. The band retreats to the back of the stage and the background dancers disappear offstage, leaving room for Eames to rise up from below the stage again, this time seated at a piano bench. He's wearing a steel gray button-down shirt and black dress pants, reserved and handsome after the outlandishness of his earlier outfits.

"Hello, Seattle," he murmurs into the microphone, and the audience erupts with applause. "Have you missed me?"

He touches the piano, a soft trickle of notes from his next song, _Hypnotic_ , but also continues to speak, leaning into the microphone like he has a secret to tell. "It's been a while since I last visited—I don't expect you remember it. I looked rather different then." At the crowd's protestation, he pauses. "I know things have changed, but words can't convey to you how utterly amazing it is to be back."

The crowd thrums with yearning as Eames begins to sing, slow and tender like a love confession. He plays through seven more songs, pausing only to relieve certain players in his band and switch instruments. 

Finally, Eames returns to the piano, playing softly as he speaks into the microphone. "All my life, I've been told what I can't do, what I shouldn't wear, who I shouldn't love. I've been told to accept the world as it is instead of trying to change it, that I should shrink my dreams to fit into the smallest box, and that I should do what I'm told. If I had listened to any of those people, any of that advice, I wouldn't be here."

The crowd cheers as Eames launches into the last song of the second act, _Dancing with Lady Luck_. After the closing refrain, the band stops playing and it's only him again, speaking into the microphone with the gentle accompaniment of the piano. 

"Seattle, my sweet," he says, "You are all so beautiful, so wonderful. It is you who give me the courage to do what I do every single day, to never give up on what I love. And what I want to tell you is that you also mustn't give up—not on yourself, not on your dreams, not on pursuing whatever it is each of you wants from life. Anything is possible—that I am here tonight is proof of that."

The words echo across the arena as Eames and the piano sink into the stage again, the rest of the band stepping up to the forefront to run through an instrumental version of the song. The curtain comes down behind them as the last set is put up, Eames changing and preparing for the final act of the show. Arthur exhales and can feel the collective sigh around him, a mingling of contentment and longing.

After the band finishes, the curtain pulls up to reveal Eames in the center, surrounded by his background dancers. They immediately launch into the choreography, music frantic and fast-paced. The crowd dances and screams as Eames goes through the final act, ending in an explosion of pyrotechnic sparks. The curtain falls on that and the crowd reaches a fever pitch, cheering so loudly Arthur winces through his earplugs.

A minute later, Eames reappears onstage alone. He launches into an encore, _Flying Sky High_. At the end of the song, amidst the second round of applause, he bows deeply to the crowd three times. "Seattle, you were tremendous," he says as he blows the crowd a kiss. "Thank you so very, very much. Goodnight, my darling."

* * * * *

So this is what all the fuss is about, Arthur thinks as he gets up. It really isn't like rehearsals at all.

He finds Cobb, Mal, Ariadne, Casper and Flowers all waiting in a lounge backstage. Ariadne's sitting on one of the couches, a laptop balanced precariously on her knee as she says, "How about this: another great show tonight. Thanks, Seattle. Hashtag: Eames-summer-tour."

"Sounds good," Cobb replies.

Mal looks up when Arthur enters the room and raises an eyebrow. "What did you think?"

"He's amazing," Arthur says honestly. "He's got an incredible presence and the fans love him."

Cobb says, "Still not feeling the music, huh?"

"Not in the slightest," Arthur replies while Mal shakes her head at him. Cobb just looks amused.

"Tweeted and done," Ariadne announces. "Now onto the retweets. Man, that is one hella fancy sign. I wonder how long it took for someone to bedazzle all those letters."

Over in the corner, Casper and Flowers are playing a game of Rocks, Paper, Scissors until Flowers catches Arthur's eye. "Hey. New guy," she says, beckoning him over.

"Hey," Arthur says, walking over. "How'd everything go?"

"Smooth sailing," Casper replies. "Enjoy the show?"

"Yeah. Although my ears are ringing," Arthur says ruefully. "Eames in his dressing room?"

Flowers and Casper exchange glances. "Should be," she says. "Want to escort him back to the hotel? Fans tend to wait outside the backdoor for him to come out. Can get kind of hairy."

"Sure. Is he going to want to go straight back to the hotel? Or will he want to make any stops?" Arthur asks, mentally girding himself for the worst.

"Eames doesn't really go out much," Flowers says. "He can be a little—unpredictable after shows, but I'm sure he'll go easy on you since you're the new guy."

Arthur wonders whether that's supposed to be reassuring as he heads into the hallway. After knocking, Arthur steps into Eames' dressing room, which has clothing strewn all over the ground and Eames bouncing on the balls of his feet in the middle of it. It's nowhere near any of the terrible things Arthur's ever walked in on, even if Eames is jumping up and down like a kangaroo on speed.

"Hey," Arthur says carefully, trying to catch Eames' attention. "Great show tonight."

"Hm?" Eames is still hopping, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and rolling out his shoulders like a middleweight boxer. He's wearing a skintight wifebeater and faded (but expensive-looking) jeans, which only heightens the effect. "Terribly sloppy footwork at the close, must have knocked my mike loose somewhere after the first song because the whole act sounded off, and I botched the encore."

"Well," Arthur says, after a beat. "From where I was sitting, you couldn't tell."

Eames doesn't seem to hear him, starting to bounce across the room and then back, moving from one corner to another seemingly without any set pattern. Arthur watches him for another few moments before he hears someone calling his name.

He sticks his head out into the hallway to catch sight of Cobb, waving at the other end. "The limo's here. Get Eames, and hurry."

Arthur turns back to say something to Eames, but he's no longer bouncing across the room frenetically. In fact, he's not in the room at all.

"Eames?" Arthur calls out, checking the adjoining bathroom first (empty) and then the last door, leading to a smaller, second room with a couch. Which is where he finds Eames, sprawled face-down, snoring.

"Shit," Arthur mutters as he says Eames' name and then moves closer to tentatively touch him on the shoulder. "Hey, Eames, wake up. It's time to move out." But Eames does not respond to this, various cajoling entreaties, or a hearty shake of the shoulder. He's out cold, snoring blissfully and dead to the world.

Arthur walks out to the hallway again, looking for Cobb. But the lounge is empty and the hallway's deserted. He's on his own.

He glances at his watch before making an executive decision. "Alright, here's how we're going to do this," he says as he puts an arm around Eames' waist and drags him awkwardly upright. Eames, somehow still unconscious, flops to the side until Arthur catches him and props him up. "How can you still be asleep?" Arthur wonders aloud as Eames' head lolls onto his shoulder. If Eames is shamming sleep, he's doing a damn good job of it, breaths deep and even while his snores are loud and nasal in Arthur's ear.

"One, two, three—and up we go," Arthur murmurs as he hauls Eames to his feet and half carries him a few steps. "Okay, I'm definitely not carrying you out to the limo, so you need to wake up. Right now."

Eames does not, however, wake up. Arthur drags him across the room successfully but misjudges the width of the doorway, which results in Eames banging his arm into the wall with a loud smack.

"What the—" Eames jerks awake and reels back while Arthur instinctively tightens his grip and, upon remembering what happened last time he was holding onto Eames too tightly, lets go again.

Eames flails a bit as he stumbles away from the offending doorway and rubs his right arm. "Bloody hell, Arthur," he says. "You were supposed to do the sensible thing and pick me up like a toddler, not throw me into a wall."

Arthur sighs. "I knew this was some kind of test."

"One which you failed," Eames grouses as he continues to rub his arm. "I'm going to be positively black and blue because of this."

"That was barely a tap," Arthur says, irritated. "And it's your own fault for pretending to be in a coma." Casper and Flowers appear in the doorway, both chuckling as Arthur levels a narrow look at them. "Very funny, guys."

"Nothing personal, new guy," Flowers says with a philosophical shrug. "Had to be done."

"And I paid the price," Eames declares dramatically as he grabs his bag off the table and strides into the hallway, Flowers a few steps behind.

Casper gives Arthur a sympathetic smile. "I tried to pick him up and almost dropped him on his head halfway out," he says. "And I'm pretty sure Flowers actually dropped him."

"So did I pass?"

"Sure," Casper replies as he heads out. "But you're still the new guy."

* * * * *

**Portland**

"Everyone here?" Eames' publicist, Constanza, is a 50-something year old woman with thick tortoiseshell glasses, a Chanel pinstripe suit, and a brooch shaped like a duck pinned to her blouse. She is, in short, exactly the type of woman Arthur would expect Eames to employ. "Where's—oh, there you are, Ariadne. Have a seat."

They're all seated in the common area of the hotel's penthouse suite. There are long leather couches and a cart full of complimentary snacks and appetizers the hotel sent up as part of their VIP package. Arthur's working his way through a bag of the tastiest (and most expensive) trail mix he's ever had while Eames is eating a salad ("If I so much as glance at junk food I sprout love handles. This is a cart filled with temptation."). 

Cobb is sprawled on the couch munching loudly on some baked potato chips, flipping idly through the channels on the enormous flat-screen mounted to the wall. After five minutes, he runs out of actual TV channels and reaches the satellite radio ones. In between the music, a host comes on, "You're listening to channel 48, Heart and Soul, the number one station for R &B. Up next is a singer from across the pond, Solange Williams, singing _Is it right?_ , followed by Jackson West with—"

"Cobb, if you wouldn't mind," Eames says, tone mild in a way Arthur hasn't heard before.

Cobb's brow furrows for a moment before he seems to realize what Eames is not saying. He shuts the TV off. "Sorry about that."

"Not to worry," Eames says lightly, and when Arthur glances around the room, it's clear that he's the only one who doesn't know what the hell is going on. Both Ariadne and Constanza have sympathetic expressions on their faces while Eames is steadfastly not looking at anyone. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"Eames, I'm sure you've been briefed on this already, but you have thirty interviews over the phone, on the radio, and onlineover the next three weeks. Plus another ten in person." Constanza passes printed lists to everyone in the room. "Most of these should be standard fare—questions about your music, your process, what your songs mean, what inspires you, that sort of thing. All the chat questions will be screened beforehand so there should be few surprises. And no shock DJs this time."

"Thank god," he mutters.

"Yes, thank everyone," Constanza agrees. "Now I've got a little show and tell for the class." She holds up a tabloid with a photo of Arthur and Eames walking together on the cover, bright yellow lettering at the top asking, 'BODYGUARD OR BOY TOY?'

"Ah," Arthur says as she passes the magazine to him. There are a few more grainy photos next to a poorly written article on the mysterious circumstances surrounding his hiring.

"Indeed." Constanza adjusts her glasses. "As part of your contract, Arthur, you are of course forbidden from speaking to the press about anything relating to Eames." He nods. "But they may try to badger you into saying something, catch you off guard, even eavesdrop and claim it was an official quote. Some of these 'reporters' are willing to sink incredibly low to sell magazines, so be careful, and don't let them bait you."

"Understood."

"Eames, if a reporter asks whether you're currently seeing anyone, what are you going to tell them?"

"That I'm still searching for the right person," Eames says, managing to make the response sound easy and natural rather than canned.

"What are you looking for in a relationship?" She nods at Ariadne. "Note this down. I expect this to be a popular question on Twitter."

"An excellent personality, a good laugh, and a fantastic shag," Eames says. "That's what I've been saying all year—do you think I should change it up?"

"No, I still like it as is," she replies. "Generic enough that it could allow anyone to imagine themselves dating you, plus just enough edge thanks to the mention of sex."

"What about the fans who don't want to sleep with Eames?" Arthur asks.

"People either want to be Eames, be with Eames, or wish he and his music would disappear off the face of the earth," Constanza replies. "Sorry."

Eames shrugs philosophically. "Can't be loved by everyone so there's no point trying. I have my fans and that's enough."

"Back to the questions: why did you hire Arthur?" Constanza asks. 

"When I was a little boy, I was playing in a park when the weather shifted and a storm came on—as it often does in England. A bolt of lightning struck a tree nearby, which toppled and a very large branch pinned me to the ground." Eames drums his fingertips against the arm of the couch. "I was trapped there for the duration of the storm—it was approximately five hours before someone finally discovered me."

"Jesus," Cobb says. "You never told me about that."

Eames shrugs. "It's been decades since I even thought about that day. I didn't realize any deep seated trauma still remained—not until I was standing underneath that ridiculous balloon and frozen with panic, at any rate. Arthur—well. He knew exactly what to do and came to get me. How could I not hire him?" He clears his throat and glances at Arthur. "Thank you. I don't know if I remembered to say, before."

Arthur nods once, briefly. "Happy to help."

"It's a good story," Constanza says. "You may want to shorten it, focus in on how you were pinned for hours, and that Arthur helped you avoid reliving that terrible experience. But you know they're still going to ask, regardless, whether there's anything going on between you two."

"He's my bodyguard," Eames says. "And technically, it was Cobb who did the hiring."

Constanza takes off her glasses and looks first at Eames, and then Arthur. "Is there anything I should know about you two, off the record? Should I be prepared to deal with naked photos or hacked phones and sexts?"

"No," Arthur says, before Eames can reply. "Absolutely not. I have a personal and professional policy of never getting romantically involved with clients."

"I see." Constanza levels a penetrating stare at Arthur. "Developed as a result of past experience, I'm assuming."

"Yes." He takes a deep breath, acutely aware of all eyes on him. "But that's not going to happen again. I take this job seriously, just as I take Eames' public image seriously. I won't do anything to compromise either."

"Good," she replies, putting on her glasses again. "Then it appears we're all on the same page."

* * * * *

The first of Eames' interviews (and the beginning of his US publicity blitz) passes unremarkably. There's friendly chitchat throughout the interview, with Eames at the height of his relentless and vibrant charm. After that, it's on to a rather inexperienced reporter who barely contains his nervousness throughout the twenty minute session, and then a radio DJ who jokes about Eames being the second coming of the Beatles, complete with a horde of screaming fans.

Unfortunately, the DJ's words turn out to be truer than originally thought, as the cheering mob outside the front entrance of the radio station proves. "Come on," Arthur says as he leads Eames back inside. "I'll tell the car to come around the back and we can go out the side."

It's a great plan up until the driver calls back to state that the crowd has cut off the streets, and that he's currently parked three blocks down.

"No problem," Arthur says, as he glances over at the fans still congregating. "We just need to move fast and without attracting any attention."

"Lead the way," Eames replies as he pulls the brim of his baseball cap down further on his head.

They make it down a block before a roving group of at least fifty fans carrying 'Eamesters 4 Eva' signs comes into view. They seem to have caught on to the fact that Eames is no longer inside the station and are determinedly stalking up the sidewalk in their direction.

Without a word, Arthur pulls Eames into an alley and presses him against the wall, blocking him bodily from sight. The fans pass the alleyway without a second glance, and Arthur can feel the firm muscle of Eames' chest against his as he breathes--no give, whatsoever. They're almost exactly the same height, close enough for Arthur to smell Eames' aftershave. If he were to turn his jaw just a few inches, they would be kissing.

But the chatter and footsteps of the fans pass, and Arthur waits another minute or two before taking a step back and releasing Eames from the wall. Arthur's not hard--thankfully--but he's further on the way there than he's strictly comfortable with.

"Well, that was..." Eames coughs as he straightens his clothes. "Something."

"Are you alright?" Arthur asks as he scans Eames. A little rumpled, cheeks slightly flushed--everything that would be expected of someone who narrowly avoided being overrun by a crowd.

"I simply need to--catch my breath." Eames half-turns and ducks his head.

Arthur touches his shoulder, concerned. "Are you claustrophobic at all? We can take a minute before we go back to the car. It seems like the coast is clear—for now."

"That's not quite why I--" Eames chuckles, and then glances over at Arthur. "We were very personal for a moment there."

"Oh, right. I forgot I never explained to you all my crowd evasion techniques." Arthur shakes his head. "Sorry. I call it the 'Alleyway Kiss' move. People see an alleyway or hallway where something frisky seems to be going down--they tend to move along without closer examination."

"Clever and effective." Eames smiles, and for a moment it seems almost shy. "You may feel free to give me your alleyway kiss any time."

Arthur looks down and pretends to brush a piece of lint off his jacket. "We didn't actually kiss, Mr. Eames."

"Well, in that case," Eames leans close again, close enough for Arthur to feel breath on his cheek, "you may feel free to rectify that oversight at anytime."

Before Arthur can formulate a proper reply to that, Eames turns on his heel and walks out of the alley, leaving Arthur to adjust his slightly-tighter-than-before-pants and follow.

* * * * *

"Hey." Ariadne plops down on the couch next to Arthur in the green room. "Isn't today your day off?"

"I thought I'd stick around in case things got hairy again," Arthur replies. "Seems like the Pacific Northwest is really crazy about Eames."

"Yesterday was pretty insane," she says. There'd been an unexpectedly large and aggressive crowd that had formed after the show, which had closed in around Eames' limo even as it was trying to leave. The situation had been both dangerous and alarming, the driver honking repeatedly for fear of hitting a fan. "You think there's going to be a repeat?"

"Hopefully not, but I asked the car to come early tonight so we can form a blockade around the way out." She's quiet for a minute, so Arthur returns to rereading the dog-eared pages of his book.

"Whatcha reading?"

He sighs a little, internally—he's just reached the part where Sonya reaches a run-down diner on the edge of Portland and discovers the unexpected thrill of freshly-made biscuits dipped in bacon gravy. " _The Land and Food We Live On_ by Sonya Roy."

"Sonya Roy. Is she that celebrity chef?"

Arthur looks up, surprised. "You know about her?"

"Not really. I think I saw some interview with her on the Food Network. She seemed kind of, uh, surly on camera."

"Yeah, she doesn't really like giving interviews." Arthur traces a finger across the chapter title, _Why we eat_. "She prefers to do her food critiques in op-eds and her books."

"That's an interesting way to become a celebrity chef," Ariadne replies. "By avoiding live media, I mean. I guess she must be pretty good if she's famous anyway."

"Well, she's started being a guest judge on a couple of cooking competitions," he says. "And the Food Network's just started airing a show that gives a behind-the-scenes look at her new restaurant."

"You're a fan, huh?"

"She taught me most of what I know about cooking and appreciating food." Arthur closes the book gently and thumbs the broken-in spine. "In here, she documents her journey across the US and the culinary traditions of all the different places she visits."

"It's like a tasting memoir?"

"I guess you could call it that." He studies the beat-up cover and thinks of all the places this book has traveled with him: across deserts, into cement bunkers, to the tops of mountains. "She also gives some advice on cooking and food preparation."

"So are you gonna follow in her footsteps? See what she saw, eat what she ate and all that?" Ariadne rests her elbow on the back of the couch. "I mean, we're not going to hit all fifty states, but we will be crossing the country."

"I've thought about it," Arthur says. "I guess this time around I might actually be able to afford to visit all the places she does."

"You should bring Eames. Or Yusuf. I know he's always up for trying out weird shit."

"Not you?"

She scrunches up her nose. "Fancy food isn't really my thing. Give me a greasy burger any day and I'm happy."

Arthur chuckles and says, "You know, you remind me a little of my younger sister."

"You'd better not say it's because I'm bratty and annoying."

"Of course not," he says. "It's because you're both beautiful and intelligent."

"You are so full of it," she says, but smiles. "What's her name?"

"Una. She's about your age, too."

"You should invite her on tour for a few days. Is she an Eamester?"

"Eamester?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, it's just something his fans call themselves. Eamesters. Anyway, Eames is always telling people to invite their friends and families along for a little while—it goes a long way to making the road less lonely."

"I guess I could ask." Arthur says. Little does he know that the real question to ask is not, 'will she want to come on tour for a few days?' but, 'how far away from my ear should I hold the phone in order to avoid hearing loss when I break the news that I'm touring with Eames?'

* * * * *

Arthur's taking a late-night piss when he notices the tour bus slowing down. He zips, washes his hands, and heads towards the front of the bus to ask Chip why they're stopping.

"Eames is hungry. Made a specific request for a rest stop."

Arthur peers out the window, and through the evening fog can make out the faint neon glow of a 7-11 sign. As they draw closer, he sees the shadows of other tour buses sitting idle in the parking lot. 

"I guess I might as well stretch my legs," Arthur says. "You want anything?"

Chip says no, and Arthur stops by the bunks to check on Yusuf, who is sound asleep, earplugs in and sleep mask on. Arthur decides against waking him, and heads outside into the surprisingly chilly air.

The 7-11 is empty except for a bored cashier playing Angry Avianz on his phone and Eames, who is standing in front of an unappetizing rack of baked goods. He's wearing the type of cardigan Arthur associates with frail grandfathers or teenage hipsters, along with jeans and flip-flops. Even with the deeply unflattering fluorescent lights overhead and the exhaustion writ large across his features, Eames manages to cut a striking profile down the narrow aisle.

"Arthur," he says, glancing up from the dubious muffin he's currently inspecting. "Didn't realize anyone else would be up."

"Nature called and I picked up," Arthur replies. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Can't get to sleep when I'm starving. I haven't had a chance to pick up any real food for my bus in ages, and I didn't want to trouble anyone this late at night. Or early in the morn, as the case may be." Eames smiles wryly down at the desiccated pastry. "I'm so hungry even this is starting to look appealing."

"Thought you didn't eat junk food?"

"Do you see any other options in this establishment?" Eames asks, and Arthur has to concede that point. "I suppose I'll tack on another twenty minutes on the treadmill tomorrow and hope that's enough."

"You know what? Forget this place. If you're going to eat something unhealthy, it might as well taste good." Arthur takes the muffin, which somehow manages to be both rock hard and crumbly, out of Eames' hand and puts it back on the shelf. "I've got food on my bus. I'll make you something."

"That's not necessary, truly," Eames says even as Arthur steers him back outside. "Yusuf's probably asleep and—"

"Is dead to the world with earplugs and a sleep mask. Come on." Arthur waves as he passes the ring of bus drivers standing around outside and leads Eames into the bus. "What're you in the mood for? I can make a salad, but that might not be enough if you're really hungry. I've got some lentil soup I can heat up, or I can make you a gruyere and tomato grilled cheese."

"That's quite a menu," Eames says, sounding vaguely surprised. "Really, I don't want to be any trouble. At this point, I'd be happy to devour cold beans straight out of a can."

"I'll reheat the soup and get started on the grilled cheese then." Arthur pours some of the lentil soup he'd made earlier into a bowl and pops it into the microwave without waiting for an answer. After a minute, Eames takes a seat at the counter while Arthur sets up the hot plate and takes out the bread and cheese.

"You cook?"

Arthur's used to people thinking he's nothing but a pretty, dumb face—one of the hazards of working in his profession—but sometimes dealing with that perception gets to him; it should be obvious that even bodyguards have to eat and occasionally feed themselves. "I try. It's hard to really get into it without a stove or proper cookware on the road."

"Yes, well, what I meant was—" Eames clears his throat. "That's a very handy skill to have. I'm rather useless in the kitchen, myself."

"You're a globetrotting pop star. That's what the professional chefs and cooks you hire are for," Arthur replies as he cuts a fresh, plump tomato in half.

"Unless they happen to all be asleep at a sensible hour, in which case even international pop stars must rely upon the tender mercies of their multi-talented bodyguards."

Arthur turns, expecting a smirk at his presumptuous insistence on making Eames food rather than letting him gnaw on stale muffins, but instead he finds Eames smiling ruefully. It's unsettling; he's used to client levels of douchebaggery being directly proportional to the amount of fame they've managed to claw their way into, and the fact that Eames persists in being agreeable leads Arthur to wonder what the hell is going on. 

A part of him suspects that this is merely the honeymoon phase—that Eames is hiding all of the batshit craziness for later, when they're better acquainted and Arthur's least expecting it. But that doesn't match up with the easy, relaxed way that Cobb, Ariadne, or the rest of Eames' inner circle deal with him; nobody's walking on eggshells for fear of a sudden shift in mood, nor is anyone watching Arthur with hawkish suspicion as they scrabble for status and scraps with Eames. Arthur thinks back to what Eames had told him about having no use for cowering yes-men and wonders, for the first time, if there's actually truth in that.

The microwave dings and Arthur passes the soup bowl over to Eames. "Might be a little hot, so be careful."

"It smells delicious," Eames says as he stirs the soup. "Did you make this yourself?"

"Yeah, but don't set your expectations too high. I had to make do with the limited ingredients I could pick up," Arthur says as he returns to preparing the grilled cheese. "It's hard to find good grocery stores when you're constantly on the move."

"At least you have the foresight to actually purchase groceries now and again," Eames says. "Despite all the touring I've done, I'm still driven to late night stale biscuit runs."

"You know, you could have made one call and woken up at least a dozen people who'd be scrambling to serve you a three course meal," Arthur says as he watches the butter sizzle on the hotplate.

"It wasn't as if I was in imminent danger of expiration via starvation, and I thought I could use a bit of air," Eames says. "This soup is positively divine, by the way. If this is one of your lesser batches, I can scarcely imagine how rich the flavor is in others you've made."

"I—thanks." Arthur allows himself a brief glance over his shoulder to observe Eames digging into his bowl with vim, the pleasure on his face obvious.

Arthur finishes making the grilled cheese at about the time that Eames' driver, Dale, sticks his head in the bus and says, "Eames, you about ready to go?"

"Oh yes, I was just leaving," Eames says as he sucks down the last drop of soup in his bowl. "Two minutes?"

The driver nods and goes back outside to tell everyone else. Arthur hands a newly plated sandwich over to Eames. "Bon appétit."

"Thank you, for taking pity on a sad, peckish Englishman in need." Eames takes an exaggeratedly deep inhale over the sandwich. "God, this is going to be better than sex, I can already tell."

Arthur chuckles as he leans against the fridge. "You might be having sex with the wrong people."

"Hah. Yes." Eames coughs and then rubs the back of his neck. "That may be. Goodnight, Arthur."

Eames wears his jeans like a European, which is to say, gloriously tight. As he leaves, Arthur watches the flex of his tight, round ass, and brings the leftover tomato resting on the cutting board up to his mouth. He takes a deep bite into the juicy flesh and it helps, a little.

  


**San Francisco**

"Nothing says 'United States' more than the smell of human suffering," Eames proclaims as he inhales deeply. Arthur does have to admit that the nearby saltwater mixed with hot trash is making for an unusually rank San Francisco afternoon. "You brought it upon yourself, parting with us as you did."

Ariadne looks up from the rapid-fire typing she's doing on her phone. "Oh, don't front. You love the US and our upstart ways."

Eames sighs a sigh of deep resignation. "You're right, I do. What's not to love? Everything here is enormous and you say thing like 'al-loom-inum' and 'show me the money.'"

"No one actually says 'show me the money' except in that one movie," Arthur points out.

"Quiet, you. Allow me to cling to the tattered remnants of my dreams." Eames tears the hat from his head and clutches it to his bosom to underscore the sentiment. "Anyway, do tell me, queen of social media and convenient voice of my calendar, what's on the agenda for today?"

"You've got a phone interview at noon and then a meeting with a couple of designers at two," Ariadne replies promptly.

"The pitch is today?" Eames' ears almost visibly perk up. "Arthur, are you scheduled for the rest of the day? Please tell me you are—even if your color palette does tend to veer towards the monochromatic, your sense of styling and fit are unrivaled, and I would dearly love to have your expert opinions to help me decide."

"First of all, what's a pitch? And second of all, I like to keep my color palette simple. There's nothing wrong with black and white."

"Oh no, not at all. That is, of course, what people say about television and the cinema as well," Eames replies.

'The pitch' turns out to be a series of mini runway shows displaying designers' latest menswear and costuming inspired by and created for Eames. Each designer's line consists of twenty looks with outfits as mundane as slacks and a shirt to fantastic designs with of towering heels, floppy brimmed hats, and accessories that skirt the line of bondage-wear.

After each look is presented, Eames give a yes, no, or maybe. The models in the yes and no categories disappear to change into different outfits, while the maybes await further review. To Arthur's surprise, Eames doesn't simply go for the wildest designs he can. Rather, he quickly vetoes all of the most impractical outfits that have the poor models tottering across the floor in danger of falling and/or flashing everyone at any moment. Not to say that the outfits he approves are sedate by any means, but as the shows go on, he doesn't seem to be picking anything outrageous simply to be outrageous.

When it comes time to review the maybes again, Eames instructs them all to go through a brief routine of stretches, lunges, and running in place. Arthur's not sure what the hell's going on at first, but after a few minutes it becomes painfully clear that most of the outfits were not made to withstand any activity more strenuous than a slow, controlled walk. Eames dismisses all garments that rip, let out distressing sounds near almost-bursting seams, or cause the model to trip.

All that’s left are some brightly colored outfits (one fire engine red, another turquoise, several others in neon) and, improbably enough, an all-black look with a wide-brimmed, floppy hat. "Arthur," Eames says, "I could really use your expert eye here."

Arthur glances once at Eames to make sure he's not joking, and then says, "The first and the last ones can go. The silhouette for the first won't be flattering and there's nothing aesthetically interesting in the last one that I can see."

Eames nods, and the models turn and walk out. Arthur allows himself a brief moment of distraction before focusing again on what Eames is saying. "—if number sixteen is too cra—"

"It's too crazy," Arthur says immediately. "Fifteen and fourteen, on the other hand, I think you could pull off."

"Number fourteen is so dark, though." Eames purses his lips and cocks his head to one side. "What if I end up looking vampiric?"

"As long as you don't pop in some fangs and a cape, I think you'll be okay," Arthur says dryly. "If you don't like it, you don't have to wear it. But I think it could be a good look on you."

"Alright." Eames flashes a smile at the model in number fourteen, who turns beet red and nearly swoons. "Number fourteen is in."

They finish out the rest of the possibilities, Eames nixing some at Arthur's behest ("that's going to make you look like a giant balloon animal, Eames,") and keeping a few despite Arthur's doubts. After every outfit has been reviewed, the models are dismissed and Eames speaks with the designers, presumably to arrange fittings. Arthur goes downstairs to check that no paparazzi are waiting to ambush Eames.

When Arthur steps outside, there's no one there except one of the models, leaning against the building and smoking like he stepped right out of a magazine spread. When he sees Arthur, he straightens and puts his cigarette out. Arthur feels all the saliva dry up in his mouth because—well, because it's not every day you have six feet of pure gorgeous sauntering up like they've been waiting all their life for you.

"Hey." The model smiles, revealing approximately three million pearly whites. 

"Hey," Arthur says, voice coming out raspier than it usually does. He hopes sudden onset dehydration makes him sound sexy, not deranged. "Nice show."

"Thanks." The model smiles wider and all of Arthur's blood gushes from nonessentials like his brain right down to his groin. "You work for Eames, right? Do you know if he's single?"

The sensible thing for Arthur's blood to do would be to stop in its tracks, pick up its toys, and return home to its usual duties. Sadly, even the announcement that the model—like every other person on this earth—is more interested in a famous pop star than some dude that works for him, isn't enough to convince Arthur's dick that it shouldn't charge full speed ahead anyway. "I'm afraid I can't talk about that."

"Oh, I see. Well, if you get the chance, could you pass this on to him for me?" The model steps forward with a card and though Arthur should say no, should turn it down, the power of his dick and the model's insane attractiveness compel him. The model smiles again, and frankly, resistance was always going to be futile. "Thanks. I'd really appreciate it."

Arthur says something—gibberish, probably—as the model walks away, but mostly, he's trying to figure out the most discreet way to adjust his junk. He's really going to need to see about getting his pants taken out if he's going be bombarded with this many obscenely attractive men on a regular basis for the next two months.

Eames comes downstairs a few minutes later and they get inside the car. On the drive back, Arthur draws the business card from his jacket pocket and passes it over. "You have an admirer who would like for you to call him."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "A random person on the street gave you his card?"

"It was one of the models," Arthur admits, a little reluctantly. "Number twenty-three."

"Oh," Eames says, tone changing slightly as he looks down at it again. Arthur looks out the window and Eames says nothing else, but in the reflection he can see Eames slipping the card into his breast pocket.

* * * * *

"Hey, Arthur, you're up," Casper says when Arthur opens the hotel room door. "Thirty minutes to get ready before we roll out."

"Flowers need a shift change?" Arthur asks. He wasn't scheduled to be working tonight.

"Nah, Boss-man's got a date, so all hands on deck," Casper says. "He'll be taking a separate car to pick the date up. We'll be in a car riding behind them to the restaurant. We already phoned the place to let them know."

"Oh," Arthur says. "Right, okay. Yeah, I'll be ready in ten. The place we're going—should I change into something else?"

Casper looks up and down at Arthur's black suit and plain white shirt before chuckling. "I think you'll be fine."

The place they end up going to is a Michelin-rated two star restaurant that Arthur recognizes immediately from Sonya Roy's descriptions. Its atmosphere is elegant but easy, casual enough to avoid stuffiness, and the aroma of food wafting from the kitchen makes Arthur's mouth water. He follows Casper and Flowers' lead, taking a seat with them at a table in the corner of the back room, which has been emptied for Eames and his date—the model.

Arthur quietly thrills as they receive menus, wondering if there's a spending limit. If there is, he'll pay the overage because who gives a fuck; he's sitting in a restaurant Sonya Roy ate in and recommended.

As if sensing at least part of Arthur's train of thought, Flowers says, "You can order a drink, appetizer, entrée, and dessert. Full meal's one of the perks of the job."

"Yeah, the Boss-man tends to be in a good mood when he gets a date," Casper chimes in. "The restaurant's keeping everyone away, so it should be an easy night."

Arthur doesn't want to ask what comes after the dinner, so he keeps his eyes on the menu and orders everything Sonya did. While the food is being prepared, he chats with Flowers and Casper, inquiring about whether there's anything in particular he should see in San Francisco. He also keeps an eye on Eames and his date—Tyrell, Eames had called him—while they wait, swallowing down any unpleasant feelings he might have with his cherry coke.

The arrival of the amuse-bouche—a watermelon and cilantro sorbet that bursts with flavor—serves to help clear Arthur's head. It's gone in two bites and he thinks about what Sonya would say about it as he scans all the doors and windows in the room. Refreshing, with a charming presentation and pleasant flavors, she'd probably say, but it didn't go far enough. She'd probably say that it's a shame when chefs hold back for fear of taking risks, because that way lies predictability and dissatisfaction.

The rest of the meal is better: a light but flavorful brassicas for an appetizer, an entrée of rare beef tartare, closing with a velvety flourless chocolate cake. It's a fantastic meal, everything Sonya had written it to be, and Arthur doesn't even have to pay anything besides tip. 

This is a good job, he thinks to himself as he watches Tyrell feed Eames a little bite of dessert. This may even be a _great_ job, filled with perks and a generous salary and a boss and coworkers Arthur is starting to genuinely like. There are downsides, of course: the relentless schedule, being on duty or on call virtually 24/7, the feeling of being trapped inside a strange bubble, staring out at the rest of a world that's peering in. But it's worth it, he thinks. It's what he's been working towards his whole career.

The date concludes with Eames dropping Tyrell off at the bottom of his apartment building. They kiss for a minute or two outside before Tyrell issues what's obviously an invitation to come up. Arthur watches from a respectful distance as Tyrell heads inside the building, Eames not in tow.

Instead of getting right back into his limo, Eames turns to Arthur and gives a little wave. He waves back, startled, and from this far away it's impossible to decipher Eames' expression. Eames opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but then closes it and turns back to his limo.

"The Boss-man doesn't do sex on the first date," Casper explains on the drive back to the hotel. "He's had some bad experiences."

"Like what?"

"A couple guys made secret sex tapes and tried to extort money from him, one woman hacked his phone, a different one stole his wallet and tried to hock it on Ebay," Flowers says. "All kinds of stuff."

"People can be really shitty," Arthur says, after a moment.

"Yeah," Casper agrees. "They really can."

* * * * *

The show goes well—a sold out arena, hundreds of signs asking for Eames' hand in marriage and, for some reason, a fair amount of fans shouting, "Tastes good!" at him as well. Arthur assumes it's one of those "internet memes" that Ariadne keeps talking about, whatever those are. Kids these days.

Afterwards, there's a meet and greet backstage. The way it's set up is deceptively low-key: there's a long table with fresh vegetables and dip, rows of bottled water, tea packets, and hot coffee. Most of the backup dancers, band, and other crew are milling around, mingling casually with the fans that aren't in line for an autograph and photo with Eames. Flowers is in the corner, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd while Casper and Arthur stand beside Eames, ready to intercede if a fan gets too grabby or holds up the line.

For the most part, the fans are fine. They bring shirts and CDs and other paraphernalia to sign before Eames gives them a hug and a photo to send them on their way. More than a few are on the brink of hyperventilating, some are hysterical, and a few burst into tears upon reaching him. Eames seems used to this, holding out tissues and saying, "I know my countenance is rather terrifying to behold, but on the upside, after we take the photo you can blur out my face and Photoshop someone attractive in, like Luis Estefan. I am a bit pasty though, so you may need to give the rest of me an artificial tan to match properly."

Some of the fans who have a less firm grasp of social boundaries present sex toys or various parts of their bodies to sign, which is where Arthur steps in so Eames can be his usual charming self when he says, "Sorry, love, I'm afraid I can't go against the dashing man in the suit—he gets awfully cranky, you know."

Eames is the picture of gracious professionalism when it comes to dealing with his fans, enduring endless amounts of inappropriate touching with patience, extricating himself from roving hands with nothing but warm smiles. 

He flirts only a little with them—a strict line drawn somewhere that he refuses to cross no matter how attractive a fan might be. Given that some of Arthur's previous jobs had involved facilitating clandestine meetings between horny musicians and star-struck fans, it's a relief to see that Eames doesn't seem interested in that aspect of backstage culture. There's still months to go and plenty of fans to meet, of course—maybe he's just developed exceptionally stringent standards—but from what Arthur can tell, Eames has erected a wall over which not even the hottest or most desperate fan can hurdle.

Arthur's been party to any number of meet and greets that were little more than sleazy sex and drug shows, so to be part of one so orderly and free of slime is—pretty excellent, actually. He says something to that effect to Eames on the drive back to the hotel.

Eames seems amused. "Expected a backstage entrée into sex, drugs, and rock and roll?"

"I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime, thanks," Arthur says dryly. "Nothing sucks the glamour out of that particular lifestyle like being the only sober person in a room filled with drunk people awkwardly humping and passing out in their own vomit."

Eames chuckles. "The stories you could tell, I'm sure."

"Most of my stories involve fishing people out of piss and throw-up at the end of the night. Nobody wants to hear those stories." Not that Arthur hadn't received offers to partake in all the 'fun'—he definitely had. But even starting out, he'd known that taking anyone up on those offers was the fast track to burning his career to ashes; no one wanted to hire a bodyguard they couldn't count on to keep it in their pants or stay sober on the job. They weren't hiring another buddy to drink with, after all.

"I can't say I didn't partake in my own and perhaps several others' fair shares of chemically-enhanced recklessness," Eames says, seeming embarrassed. "But I promise you, I left that all behind years ago. I'm not a twenty-something who can spring up fresh as a daisy after twelve hours of binge drinking and two hours of sleep. My fans pay for the best show I can deliver, not to see some hungover idiot limping across the stage."

"So you don't have a, um—" Arthur shifts and tries to find a way to word this as tactfully as possible. "A protocol you want me to follow with regards to certain fans you might want to—get to know better?"

A sad smile breaks across Eames' face. "I imagine you have good reason for asking that sort of question, don't you?" He shakes his head. "I don't sleep with fans, particularly when we first meet at venues where they've come specifically to see me."

"But fans you've met elsewhere are fair game?" Arthur says, trying to push the image of Tyrell out of his mind.

"After I get to know them a bit." Eames sighs. "Constant travel doesn't make for great opportunities in that department. And I've had some—unfortunate incidents in the past."

"Casper and Flowers mentioned the extortion and theft."

"Yes, of course they did." Eames forces a faint smile. "But really, it's not as bad as all that. The overwhelming majority of my fans are excellent. The poorer treatment I've received from some is likely no less than I deserve for some of the more—selfish choices I made in my youth."

"What they did to you is inexcusable," Arthur says. "You don't need to act like it doesn't bother you around me."

"Careful, Arthur," Eames says lightly, looking down at his door console, playing idly with the button to roll down the window. "You're in danger of getting to know the man behind the meat kilt."

Arthur can't help but smile a little. "I'm looking forward to it."


	4. The Salad

> If a chef is uncertain of the story they wish to tell, they need only look to why they chose to get into the business of making food to begin with. Most people are capable of at least the most rudimentary processes involved in assembling edible items for a meal. But relatively few amongst the billions that have ever fed themselves (or others) seek to go beyond the basics in pursuit of something more. A chef must always ask her or himself: what moves me? Why did I choose this life?  
>  - _The Land and Food We Live On_ , by Sonya Roy

**Los Angeles**

"You're not staying at the hotel?" Yusuf asks. He's packing up some vials filled with bright yellow liquid that Arthur's afraid to ask the origin of. 

"No, I have a place near Miracle Mile," Arthur replies. "Should probably swing by and clear out some of the junk mail that's accumulated."

"Home sweet home," Yusuf says. "Eames better have given you a few days off. You did tell him you live here, right?"

"Yeah, I've only got one full day shift and a couple of evening ones. I'll be doing double-time when we reach Boston and New York, though," Arthur says. They're staying for an unusually long stretch in LA—almost week—with only three shows during that time. It's a bit of a scheduled break, Arthur supposes, and maybe time to schmooze.

"Going to catch up on your laundry?" Yusuf says while Arthur stuffs the last of his clothing into a suitcase.

"That, and maybe swap out a few things. Although—" Arthur frowns and tries to remember whether he even has anything back home to swap. "I may need to buy some things before I can swap them."

"Buying clothing? Oh, tell Eames. I'm sure he'll be happy to go with you." At Arthur's skeptical expression, Yusuf adds, "I'm serious. You've seen how whole restaurants shut down to cater to him. Well, shopping is precisely like that—call ahead, have the place cleared out, and pick up a ton of free shit from managers trying to kiss his ass. And even if it's not quite free, usually there's some massive celebrity discount."

"You really think that's going to work? He's not going to be wearing the stuff I'm buying."

"Eames is a celebrity tastemaker," Yusuf says. "I'm sure he'll pick up a shirt or two if necessary, but the prospect of clothing one of his entourage—yes, you are officially part of the entourage now—will have shop-keeps salivating."

* * * * *

While Yusuf may not appreciate the finer points of cuisine involving any sort of seafood, he does, as it turns out, know exactly what the fuck he's talking about when it comes to shopping with Eames. Arthur broaches the topic of visiting Rodeo Drive with Eames tentatively, expecting him to wave it off in favor or sleeping or sightseeing or doing whatever it is rich celebrities do in Hollywood. But Eames seems to be delighted by the idea, stating that it's been far too long since he last shopped for shoes.

Cobb shoots Arthur a warning look as they're heading out and says, low so only Arthur can hear, "He already has a trailer just for his shoes. _A whole trailer_."

They get to Rodeo Drive relatively early in the afternoon and it is precisely as Yusuf predicted: empty stores and a team of minders hovering on the edge of Arthur's peripheral vision, tracking their every move. It's a little creepy, to be honest, and Arthur wonders if this intense scrutiny is what Eames lives under every day of his life.

They go to Arthur's favorites: Armani, Dior Homme, and Salvatore Ferragamo. He picks up the cheapest shirts, suits, and shoes available, most of which Eames does successfully wrangle for free or at a discount. Arthur's ties are thrown into the lot at no charge, though Eames comments disapprovingly about his choices. "More gray and blue, really, Arthur? Come now, you can chance the tiniest flash of color near your face, can't you?"

Arthur's about to stop at Brooks Brothers and call it a day when Eames declares in horror, "You're going to skip Zegna, Valentino, and Hugo Boss in favor of Brooks Brothers? That is unacceptable."

Thus begins the hours-long second half of their shopping excursion, with Eames taking the wheel in trying on half of every store's inventory while commanding Arthur to try on the other half. Arthur has to admit it is not wholly unpleasant, standing around in finely tailored fabric and watching Eames' warm smile wash over him every time he concedes to wearing a color other than black, white, or blue.

"You know, we do go everywhere together," Eames says as he adjusts the cuffs on the snow white suit he's wearing. There's a suspicious gleam in his eyes when he meet Arthur's gaze in the mirror. "If you and I were to start coordinating—"

"I'm a person, Eames," Arthur says. "Not an accessory for your art."

Eames heaves a dramatic sigh. "Must you dash all my hopes upon the rocks so summarily, Arthur?"

Eames only brings the idea up once more before finally giving up on trying to match Arthur to him like an extremely expensive living handbag. He does not, however, give up on his quest to inject more color into Arthur's wardrobe, going so far as to offer to buy colorful shirts for Arthur as a sort of "early midsummer bonus." Arthur does concede to a few of the tamer colors (a few pastels and muted tones) mostly because Eames has been such a good sport about the whole expedition.

Regardless, Eames' offers to pay turn out to be unnecessary, as the stores end up giving them all their shirts in gratitude for the obscene amount of shoes Eames ends up buying. (Cobb is going to kill Arthur). 

"This was—fun," Arthur says as they're being driven back to his apartment.

"I delight in the shock and disbelief in your voice," Eames says as he sifts through his piles of receipts.

"No it's—" Arthur clears his throat. "Sorry. What I meant to say was: thanks for doing this with me. I had a good time, and I know it's your day off."

"It was my pleasure." Eames smiles. "Truly."

* * * * *

It's nice to be back in his own space, with semi-familiar things. Arthur's apartment is tiny and mostly empty, filled with cheapo IKEA furniture and bare walls. Tajima, the last person to come over, had teased him relentlessly about still living like a college kid in a dorm. Arthur has to admit it is pretty sad that he's been living here for over four years and the only sign of life is a set of somewhat artistic building blueprints taped to the wall.

Tajima had made promises, too, promises hidden in threats about redecorating for their one year anniversary. "It's gonna be epic," Tajima had whispered when they reached six months, grinning his thousand-watt grin. "I just know it."

Arthur puts his shopping bags down on the couch and scours the kitchen for something to eat. Unfortunately, there's nothing he can make with mustard, three ketchup packets and a moldy piece of bread, so takeout menus it is. It takes three tries to find a restaurant that's still in business (god, has it been that long?). 

While he waits for the food to arrive, he checks his closet. It is, as he suspected, empty except for a pair of old running shoes, frayed jeans, and a hoodie he got at a Black Friday sale and wore only once.

As he changes from his work clothes into the hoodie and jeans, a crumpled napkin falls out of the hoodie pocket. There's a sketch Tajima had drawn of Arthur in a suit and sunglasses striking a superhero pose, chest puffed out. Underneath is Tajima's messy scrawl, "My own man in black." He'd been joking that day about Arthur's daily uniform, going so far as to draw it from memory while they were out getting coffee.

"You should wear this more often," Tajima had said as he flipped the hood up over Arthur's head. "It makes me feel like we could actually spend a day sitting around and watching TV together."

As Arthur replays the memory in his mind, he can hear a shade of resignation in Tajima's voice that he doesn't remember having noticed at the time. It was before the fighting had truly begun, but he wonders now if Tajima hadn't already started giving up on Arthur before then. If he'd already started preparing himself to walk away.

* * * * *

The mansion the party's being held at is huge, set back in a gated community on one of LA's many hills. There are approximately three million cars lining the driveway, and a guard at the door who even forces Eames to present his invitation. It's only Cobb, Ariadne, Arthur and Eames who are attending—apparently the limit on 'entourage' numbers was quite strict.

As soon as they step inside the mansion, they're offered champagne by caterers and ushered through the marble-decked foyer into the kitchen, where there's a massive table full of cupcakes all decorated with the letter A.

"This place is rocking," Ariadne says as she sips a strawberry daiquiri she managed to procure from god knows where. "How'd you say you know the birthday lady again?"

"Friend from back home. She was half the reason I kept touring instead of giving up and doing something respectable for a living," Eames replies as he stares longingly at the cupcakes. "She has done well for herself."

"Hey, Eames, give Algernon my best, will you?" Cobb pats him on the shoulder distractedly, already walking away. "There's some people I gotta talk to."

"Ooh, a chocolate fountain. And famous people who I don't work with on a daily basis!" Ariadne says, also scampering away. 

Eames glances back at Arthur as if almost expecting him to take off too, but Arthur just say, "Lead on, Mr. Eames."

Eames cracks a smile, then catches sight of someone and waves. "Algy!" he says as she approaches. "Happy birthday!"

"Eames, you rascal, I didn't think you'd come." Algernon—Algy—turns out to be a middle-aged woman with a nose piercing and a bright orange Mohawk. She throws her arms around Eames and lets him spin her around for a full rotation. "What are you wearing? This has to be the most modest outfit I've seen on you since you were seventeen-years-old and first introduced to the idea of shagging boys."

"I know the sight of my naked flesh causes you to spontaneously climax, but do try to contain yourself while we're in public." Eames lets her go with a parting grope and then reaches into his pocket for a small wrapped box. "For you, to remember our glory days in your doddering old age."

"You are walking on very thin ice, young man." When she opens the box, her eyes widen. "This is—how did you—"

"Happy birthday, Algy," he says as he leans down to kiss her cheek affectionately.

After a quick swipe of her eyes, Algernon turns to Arthur and says, "You must be that new bodyguard of his."

"Arthur. Nice to meet you."

Algernon purses her lips and gives him a once over. She looks as though she's about to say something—something perhaps less than flattering—when Eames hooks his arm in hers and says, "So tell me, how are you doing, living full time in the States now? Ever miss home?"

"Well, I suppose I can't complain. The people here love my accent, the weather's perfect every day of the year, and I've a house full of people I barely know celebrating my birthday." Algernon shrugs. "Besides, it's not as if I can really go back now. My daughter is still, for some reason beyond my faculties, rather attached to her rat bastard of an American father."

"Ah. Well, children do tend to form some rather sentimental attachments that way," Eames says.

"And what about you, Eames? Given any thought to settling down or having children? Or are you still insisting upon gallivanting across the world, shaking your barely-covered genitals at hordes of women?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say I detected a note of jealousy in your words," Eames says as they walk outside onto the patio overlooking the pool. "As for children, I assume that's a step one makes once one has extracted enduring commitment from a suitably patient life partner."

"Then I'm assuming things didn't pan out with that girl you were so mad about?" Algernon raises her eyebrows. "Don't give me that look, Eames, you know I'm utterly impervious to your rakish charms. I knew you as a gangly teenager stuffing himself into self-made costumes at the local pub."

"But you admit to the existence of my aforementioned rakish charms."

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see the figures of three large men forming a perimeter around Algernon and Eames while they talk, preventing any of the other guests from intruding. They nod at Arthur, but otherwise hang back.

"Do try to keep the level of your self-satisfaction within the stratosphere, Eames. I haven't the time to deal with an ego that's somewhere in outer space."

"I've missed you, you cantankerous old biddy," Eames says as he leans in for another warm embrace.

"And I've missed you too, you oversized, phosphorescent poodle." Algernon squeezes back. "It's time for you to go mingle with the guests instead of shutting yourself off with old ladies. I spotted a woman in the corner that you must speak to if you'd prefer not to make a fool of yourself at the Grammy's. And of course, there are some lapdogs from your record label who turned up specifically to get a meeting with you."

Eames sighs. "Must I?"

"If you're very good and you stay for at least another hour, perhaps I'll even introduce you to Celestine Lee."

" _The_ Celestine Lee?" Eames repeats, and something about that name sounds familiar to Arthur. "Do you think she'd be interested in—"

"No, I don't know whether she'll photograph you, and yes, she would be, as the Americans put it, 'totally nuts' if she passes on the opportunity to do so." There's something very close to a smile on Algernon's face as she gives Eames a little push outside the circle of bodyguards. "Now take that scowling infant you're dragging around like a safety blanket and kiss the arses you came here to kiss."

The next hour passes in a blur of musicians, actors, music industry types, and other random celebrities. Eames makes the rounds with all of his considerable charisma, leaving even the surliest producer aglow after a fifteen minute chat. It's as impressive to watch as it is nauseating to deal with the more unctuous social climbers clamoring for Eames' attention. Arthur has to physically pry off at least ten different people who start getting too personal with Eames.

Eventually they end up by the pool again, Eames seeming relieved to be away from the press of the crowd. "I hate these things," he says as he takes a cupcake from a passing caterer. "Oh my god, this is so good." Eames practically groans as he devours it.

Arthur can't think of anything to say in response as he tries not to stare at Eames' lips, open and stained by red velvet dye.

Once he's done eating, he turns to Arthur and says, "Do you still have the bag I gave you to carry?"

"Yes," Arthur says as he takes the nylon square from his pocket and holds it up.

"Good, open it." Arthur's eyes widen as Eames begins unbuttoning his shirt.

"Uh." Arthur unzips the square and unfolds a large bag, which Eames drops his shirt into. "What are you doing?"

"Going for a dip. Have to work off those cupcake calories somehow, and this party's duller than dirt." Eames unzips his slacks and pushes them off to reveal nothing but a reddish-orange Speedo underneath. It's very small, very tight, and leaves very little to the imagination.

Arthur can do nothing but gape as Eames walks over to the pool and dives gracefully into the water. Everyone in the backyard begins to chatter amongst themselves, drawing closer to the pool while Eames resurfaces with all the grace and confidence of a sea god, muscles and tattoos rippling in the water.

In the past few hours, hardly anyone had ventured into the water beyond sticking a toe. But now a wave of people start kicking off their shoes and wading in after Eames. Before long, there's a semi-organized game of Marco Polo going on, with him at the center of it all.

"He knows how to cause a stir," Cobb says as he walks up to Arthur, sounding unsurprised. "You the one he's making hold his clothes?"

Arthur holds up the bag. "He do this often?"

"Define 'often.'"

"So, I don't know if you guys noticed," Ariadne says when she joins them, "but Eames just took off all his clothes and jumped in the pool."

"It's good I have you here to keep me updated," Arthur says. "Otherwise I don't know how I'd get by."

"I'm a modern-day Cassandra," she replies and jerks her head at the people taking out their camera-phones. "I hope someone comes up with a good hashtag for all the tweets about this. Something like, slippery-when-wet-Eames. Maybe shorter, I don't know. "

"No official tweets," Cobb says. "We already have enough people who think Eames is some wild exhibitionist."

"Wonder where they'd get that idea," Arthur says.

"Yo, Eames," Ariadne calls out, waving to get his attention. "Looking good!"

Eames doggy-paddles over to the shallow end of the pool where they're standing, pulling himself up to sit on the steps. Through the water, it's easy to see the outline of his cock through the clingy material of his swimsuit. It's even more distracting than the glistening drops of water across his perfectly sculpted body. "Why thank you, my dear."

"Hey," Cobb says. "Is that the Pantone color of the year?"

Eames snaps the edge of his swimsuit—narrowly avoiding flashing anyone—and beams. "Yes, it is! Tangerine tango. Thank you for noticing, Cobb."

"Eames," one of the other swimmers on the other side of the pool yells. "You in for a game of chicken?"

"Bring it on," Eames replies, winking at Ariadne before turning back towards the deep end.

Cobb's phone rings and he wanders off to answer. Ariadne heaves a great sigh and says, "Time to go check the Twittersphere," and sits down on a lawn chair. 

Arthur takes a few steps back out of splashing radius, and watches the game with as much detached, professional interest as he can muster when viewing a crowd of wet, writhing, mostly naked bodies. He's profoundly glad for the large bag he's holding in front of his waist.

After the game is concluded (there's a tie), Eames drifts away from the other people. "Arthur?" he says, fingers holding onto the edge of the pool as he peers up.

Arthur kneels down by the edge of the pool. "Yes, Eames?"

"I'm bored," he says, pitched low so only Arthur can hear. "You should come into the water with me. It's very warm."

"Not everyone's got Pantone color of the year swimwear on underneath their clothing," Arthur replies, unable to help smiling a little.

"You could strip down to your skivvies. Or go skinny dipping." The way Eames is looking up at Arthur through his eyelashes should be ridiculous. But somehow, combined with the plump redness of his mouth, it ends up being far more inviting than it has any right to be. "I'm sure Algy wouldn't mind."

"If I'm naked and in the water, how am I supposed to protect you from threats to your person?" Arthur asks, aware that he's playing right into this and he shouldn't. He really shouldn't.

"You're so resourceful and clever." Eames reaches out to trace the instep of Arthur's right shoe with a single finger. "I'm certain you could devise a way to keep me out of trouble."

Arthur wants to bend down and lick the droplet of water trailing down Eames' cheek. He wants to tear off all his clothes and cannonball into the water. He wants to drag Eames out of the pool and into the closest dark corner he can find. He wants to start kissing Eames and never stop.

Instead he says, "You want to meet Celestine Lee? Because I think she just arrived."

  
[ ](http://i.imgur.com/bevTB.png)

* * * * *

"Welcome back," Flowers says as she helps Arthur lift his suitcases out of the trunk of the cab. "Enjoy checking in at home?"

"Yeah, it was good," Arthur says lightly, not wanting to get into it. Out of the ten odd people he called, two bothered to get back to him, and one did so only to say she was busy. "Wish there was somebody to change the sheets and scrub the toilet for me, though."

"I hear that," she replies as they head towards the tour buses. "Cleaning's the worst."

"Anything exciting happen while I was away?"

"Nonstop interviews and press gigs. People are already asking Eames what he's gonna wear to the Grammy's, it's nuts," she replies. "I told him he should wear something off the rack to blow their minds, but I'm pretty sure the horror of non-designer fabric hasn't graced his skin in twenty years."

"I think I might have missed you," Arthur says, words slipping out by accident.

Instead of seeming annoyed or offended, Flowers chuckles and punches him lightly on the shoulder. "You too, new guy. You too."

* * * * *

**Las Vegas**

 

"There's nothing good on TV," Arthur grouses as he flips back and forth between an infomercial featuring an expandable umbrella wallet and a rerun of Wheel of Fortune. "There's nothing good and we have at least four more hours before we reach Las Vegas."

"Go take a nap then," Yusuf says, not looking up from his laptop screen.

"I already took a nap," Arthur replies, aware his tone is in danger of crossing the line from 'justifiably annoyed at the lack of quality television programming available at noon on a Wednesday in Nevada' into 'five-year-old whiner.'

"Then crack open that medieval artifact you call a laptop and surf the internet like every other bored person in the world is doing." 

"And look at what?" Arthur says, truly stumped. "I already checked my email on my phone."

Yusuf looks up in disbelief. "You know how to check email on your phone?"

"Hey, I have operated cutting-edge security equipment and technology. I know things. Just not—" Arthur waves his arm in the direction of his laptop, "Internet things."

"Alright, well, how about Facebook? Do you have a profile?" At Arthur's blank expression, Yusuf says, "Linkedin? Twitter? A bloody diary?"

"I'm—" Arthur pauses. "I'm kind of a private person. I don't really like… sharing things about myself with strangers online."

"Alright, well, perhaps you would do better with a website that requires no action on your part whatsoever," Yusuf says as he settles down on the couch next to Arthur and points at the screen. "This is Eames' official website. Ariadne updates the blog, uploads photos, and updates the touring information. There's forums where fans can post and talk with each other, and even profiles on all of Eames' crew."

Arthur frowns when Yusuf brings up Arthur's profile. "Why is there a 'Dice' in the middle of my name?"

"Everyone gets a nickname. Yours is 'Dice.' Because you look so neat and composed, but you could turn scary and crazy at any second." Yusuf mimics shooting guns at Arthur with his hands. "Get it? It's your new, badass nickname."

"That... doesn't even make any sense," Arthur says. "And why 'Dice' and not 'Die'? That implies there's more than one of me."

"Don't be ridiculous. 'Die' sounds silly."

"Oh yeah, because _that_ would make it stupid."

"Don't blame me. Some nerd on ihearteames.com came up with it and it caught on. And besides, shouting 'Die' around Eames might not be the best plan of action if you don't wish to draw a particular sort of attention to yourself."

"Why are we even looking at this site anyway?" Arthur says. "We already know all his touring information and whatever Ariadne is blogging about."

"For the juicy gossip on the message boards, of course." Yusuf rubs his palms together in nearly diabolical glee. "Reading about oneself is an extension of the time-honored tradition of eavesdropping, made possible by the information superhighway."

"You want to read what fans say about Eames?" Arthur says doubtfully.

"Naïve, sweet Arthur," Yusuf says, shaking his head. "I'm not reading what they say about Eames, I'm reading what they say about _you_."

"Why would anyone—" Arthur stops when he comes to the first thread with his nickname in it. "Poll: Does Dice power down to go to sleep or hang from the ceiling of a cave?"

"Seems like bat cave is winning, but battery-powered android is only two votes behind," Yusuf observes.

"And what's this thread? 'The many waistcoats of wonder'? And 'Desert island: who would you eat first?'"

"Portlandzdarling would be very sad to have to eat you," Yusuf reports. "And Dicefannumber1 would prefer to eat you in an entirely different manner, it would appear. My goodness, that is saucy."

"I don't approve of this," Arthur declares as he gets up off the couch. "Who are these people and why are they writing haikus about my ankles?"

"Oh, Arthur," Yusuf sighs happily as Arthur stomps away. "You really are like the angry, technophobic uncle I never had."

* * * * *

Later, when Arthur goes to retrieve Eames from the dressing room, Eames opens the door with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Why hello, _Dice_."

"I don't approve of that," Arthur says as he follows Eames in. "Let it be known that I don't approve of any of the nicknames people have suggested for me, including but not limited to: Dice, Suits, Babyface, Jailbait, or the Gelinator."

"But you must admit that Dice is the best out of the lot," Eames says as he takes a seat at the vanity. "Objectively speaking."

"Do people not realize I am a grown man?" Arthur asks. "Do they not realize I've been drinking for longer than some of them have been alive?"

"Whereas Dice is a nickname which conveys so much information on so many levels with a single word," Eames says. "Like a perfectly crafted song title. For example."

"I already have enough problems with people not taking me seriously in this profession." Arthur sinks onto the couch, morosely imagining future possible employers laughing him out the door with the phrase, 'Jailbait Gelinator' on their lips.

"What do you think for tonight? Yellow or the red?" Eames holds up two shirts and Arthur only has to glance at them before replying distractedly,

"You look great in red on camera."

Eames makes a thoughtful noise. "Red it is then."

Arthur rubs his forehead and then takes a deep breath. "Sorry, I forgot to ask. How are you? How is everything?"

"It's alright, not everything has to be me me me 24/7." Eames meets his eyes in the mirror. "I'm fine. A bit worn after the long drive and not truly prepared for this last-minute show, but _c'est la vie_."

Arthur watches Eames fuss with the collar of his shirt for a minute before getting up to fix the back himself. "You're going to be great. You always are."

"Says the man who doesn't listen to music."

"Says the man who watches you perform in sold-out arenas day in and day out." Arthur smooths down Eames' shoulders and takes a step back. "There. Perfect for a live performance in an intimate venue that will also be taped and streamlived across something something something on the internet."

Eames smiles. "One day, you are going to learn how to use the internet and find it as hopelessly addicting as the rest of us."

"Sure," Arthur says. "One day."

 

**Phoenix**

"He's not well-known yet, but the man is a marvel with suiting," Eames says as he strolls down the street, stopping to peer in a shop every now and again. He's wearing sunglasses but opted to take off the baseball cap once it became clear that no one in city seemed to know or care who he was. It's strange to find pockets of the country that aren't infatuated with Eames, but Arthur supposes it was bound to happen sooner or later. Eames seems to be enjoying the relative anonymity, at any rate.

"You're going to go with an unknown for the red carpet? Or will this be for the actual performance?" Arthur asks, wondering idly if it'll be worth looking at the price tags. He tapped out his clothing budget for the year back on Rodeo Drive, but maybe if this guy isn't already a designer to the stars Arthur can afford a half a tie or a broken cufflink or something.

"Haven't decided yet. I suppose I'll see what he has in stock and allow his needle to determine my fate," Eames replies as he stops in front of a small boutique called '528491' with two fully suited male mannequins in the window. The suits do fit the mannequins impeccably, Arthur has to admit, even if the cut and styling aren't to his taste. Trust Eames to be avant-garde even with his black tie events.

They step inside the shop, which is small and jam-packed with menswear, not limited to jackets and pants. At the cash register is a slightly-built man with dark hair, scribbling in a ledger. When he looks up, Arthur meets some of the bluest eyes he's ever seen.

"Robert," Eames says affectionately. "How are you?"

Robert looks at Arthur for a fraction too long before smiling at Eames. "Always happy to see my favorite customer."

"Shameless flattery will get you everywhere," Eames says as he leans in for a brief kiss on the cheek. Arthur feels a surge of confusing jealousy that's cut short by Eames adding, "Oh, and I don't think you've met my newest bodyguard yet. Arthur here saved my life."

"That may be overstating the impressiveness of what I actually did," Arthur says as he reaches out to shake Robert's hand.

"Well, sometimes a little overstatement is good for the soul." Robert smiles again and Arthur thinks: please don't be the only straight male fashion designer in Phoenix. "As long as the core of what you did is true, what's the harm?" 

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Arthur smiles and thrills slightly when Robert smiles back.

"Robert, I trust you have something wondrous in store for me?" Eames says. "I've been on the edge of my seat dying to know."

"But of course." Robert lets go of Arthur's hand. "I whipped up a few things for you to try on and see if you like."

Thus begins the long and involved process that is fitting Eames. An assistant comes out of the back bearing a dozen options set aside especially for him, all beautifully made with clever detailing and flawless workmanship. 

While Eames is in the fitting room, Arthur leans against the counter and asks, "How's business?"

"Oh, you know. Could be better." Fischer lifts one graceful shoulder. "The market for red carpet suiting is smaller than you might think in Phoenix."

Arthur laughs. "I could see that being the case. Have you ever thought about moving somewhere a little closer to the action?"

"I've definitely considered it, but the only two locations I could come up with are Los Angeles and New York. New York is tempting but expensive. And LA is—well, I actually moved to Phoenix partially to get away from LA."

"That's—oh," Arthur says. "I didn't realize—"

"No, it's alright." The corner of Robert's mouth quirks up. "My family's from there. And let's just say my father wasn't exactly happy I passed on the chance to run his company in order to make clothing."

"But you're amazing at it," Arthur says, picking up a discarded jacket and examining the gorgeous material, the elegant cut that manages to be both surprising and classic. "If this is what you love and you're good at it—why shouldn't you do it?"

Both corners of Robert's mouth turn up, a shade warmer than friendly. Then Eames comes out of the fitting room and he goes back to work.

* * * * *

"I'm going to be in town for a few days," Arthur says while Eames is changing again. "I was wondering if you had any recommendations for a place to get dinner."

"Hm." Robert taps one finger against his chin as he thinks. It's surprisingly adorable. "There is this Thai place that I really like. A couple of decent Italian places, too. I could show you, maybe take you on a personal tour of my favorite spots around town afterwards. If you're feeling up to it."

Arthur grins. "Thai sounds good. I could stop by your store after you get off work."

"Sixish?"

Eames comes out of the fitting room then, looking like a million bucks. The jacket fits across the shoulders, lapels resting smoothly down his chest, the coloring great with his skin tone. The sleeves are a few inches too long and the waist a little snug, but otherwise it's perfect.

"Well hello, glamorous," Fischer says, as he and his assistant step forward to inspect the fit. "I think we've made a match."

"I feel like James Bond," Eames says as he strikes a pose, fingers forming a gun. "Arthur, may I call you Moneypenny?"

"Why not? Tack it onto the list," Arthur replies.

"I'll have one printed up and dusted with glitter straightaway," Eames says, smiling at Arthur in the mirror. "Wouldn't want you to lose track."

* * * * *

As agreed upon, Arthur stops by the shop at six and Robert takes him to a Thai place about fifteen minutes' walk away. Dinner is an easy, fun affair, filled with laughter and good food and footsie.

Robert is understanding about Arthur's job and hectic life on the road, passionate about his own store's business, and incredibly, unrelentingly hot both in flawlessly-made clothes and out of them.

Arthur goes to sleep that night feeling warm, sated, and content for the first time in what feels like a very long while.

* * * * *

In the morning, Arthur wakes up to Eames knocking incessantly in that over energetic way that he has, calling out, "Arthur, Arthur, are you awake yet? There's something absolutely vital I must show you this instant, I swear, darling, it's going to change your life and--"

"Eames," Arthur says as he opens the door. "Hey."

"Good afternoon." Eames is practically vibrating with excitement, and when Arthur checks his watch, he sees that it is indeed already 12:30. "What are you still doing in--"

The words stop, and when Arthur glances up, Eames is staring over his shoulder at where Robert's beginning to stir. "Did you need something?" Arthur asks, after a moment of silence.

"Um." Eames blinks, and there's a strange expression on his face before he snaps back to Arthur. "No, I--it can wait. You. This is your day off."

"You sure?" Arthur leans against the doorframe. "You were saying--"

"All hyperbole, naturally." Eames smiles, but it seems a little strained. "I'll tell you later, not to worry. Enjoy—enjoy your day off."

Arthur watches him disappear down the hallway and then closes the door, yawning. It's too early for this--even if it's almost one in the afternoon.

"So that was awesome," Robert says. He's sitting up now, shirtless with legs still tangled up in sheets. He's got creases in his cheek from the pillow, his hair looks like a birds nest on top of his head, and there's a little bit of dried drool under his chin. Arthur wants to push him backwards and kiss him all over.

"Are you talking about the sex or the fact that my boss just found out we slept together?" Arthur asks as he crawls back onto the bed. "Because if it's the latter, I'm hoping for sarcasm. If it's the former, sarcasm would probably kick me right in the nuts."

Robert chuckles as he leans up on his elbow. "You're awesome. No sarcasm, I promise."

"Nuts preserved," Arthur murmurs as he leans in for a morning-breath tinged kiss.

* * * * *

One of the benefits of guarding an A-List celebrity is the opportunity to take advantage of all the amenities fancy hotels have to offer: spas, pools, gyms, saunas, dry-cleaning—everything, really. After Robert leaves, Arthur sends some of his clothing off to be dry-cleaned and ironed, then goes to the gym and makes a final stop at the pool, where he discovers Eames lounging in one of the chairs.

Eames is distractingly shirtless and damp, sitting with one leg crossed, an open magazine in his lap. "I've been thinking," he remarks without looking up, "about switching to Dior."

"I see," Arthur says, not sure if there's a part of the conversation that he missed.

"Do you know that all Luis Estefan wears to awards shows is Dior?" Eames flips another page of the magazine and holds up a glossy spread. "How do you think it would look on me?"

Arthur steps forward and takes a look at the photo shoot; Estefan is in a gorgeous jet black suit, hundreds of flashbulbs going off around him. "It's great on him."

"I didn't ask how it looks on him," Eames says, something sharpening his tone. "I asked how you thought it would look on me."

Arthur takes a step back, frowning. "Eames."

"Well?" He closes the magazine and taps out a fast, restless rhythm on top of it. "I'm waiting."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say here." Arthur takes a deep breath. "This puts me in an awkward position."

Eames stares at Arthur for a long moment before glancing away. He brings a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose, visibly deflating. "I--you're right. I'm sorry. This is--of course this is absurd to ask of you. Forget I said anything."

"Thank you." Arthur sighs. "For the record: I think you could wear a brown paper bag and still look great. Not that I'd recommend it for the Grammy's."

"That is very sweet of you to say," Eames replies, but his smile seems even less genuine than the one he wore before.

* * * * *

"I was thinking," Arthur starts.

"Uh oh," Robert interrupts, grinning and kissing Arthur a moment after. "Kidding. Lay onto me your pearls of wisdom."

Arthur laughs and ruffles Robert's hair until some of it falls into his eyes. "No wisdom, just—these past few days have been so great together, you and me."

Robert blows upwards to clear the hair from his face. "They have been pretty excellent. I wish you weren't leaving tomorrow."

"Me too. Which is why I was thinking maybe—maybe you could come on tour with me for a few days. You could stay in my bus, share my hotel room at the stops, take a little vacation." As Arthur speaks, he watches the smile freeze on Robert's face and then fade completely. Inside his mind, he echoes Robert's earlier words: _uh oh_.

"That's—wow. Um." Robert sits up on the bed. "That's very generous, but I couldn't possibly—"

"Robert, it's no problem for me." Arthur sits up too, but he can tell that he's foundering, flailing wildly as he tries to salvage a situation that's beyond repair. "But if you can't take the time off, there's always the phone and emails. My friend even told me about this thing you can do on the internet, too, something called the Skyper, that lets us see each other. Sort of."

"The Skyper—" Robert sighs and then looks up at him. "You are so hot and funny and fun, really, you're amazing. But I can't—my line's finally starting to take off, I'm getting some good press and custom orders and it's. It's not really a great time to be starting up something serious, you know?"

"Oh," Arthur says. "But I thought—"

"Arthur." Robert sighs again. "I thought it was clear that we were both--you know. I mean, you travel around the world following famous celebrities around. That doesn't leave a lot of room for settling down from where I see it."

"I know it's a lot to try to make something work, but—" Arthur looks down at his hands. "That's why I was hoping you could come out on tour with me. I was hoping this way, maybe—maybe it wouldn't have to be so hard."

"You are such an amazing guy," Robert repeats, and Arthur's already tired of hearing that. "If things were different, I'd lock you down so fast your head would spin."

"But now you're breaking up with me instead," Arthur says numbly.

Robert leans forward to brush a gentle kiss against his cheek. "Now I'm saying, have fun on the rest of your tour. And if you want to look me up the next time you're in Phoenix, I'd love to see you again."

* * * * *

Arthur leaves the hotel and takes a walk outside, wandering aimlessly until he ends up standing next to the gate of an abandoned playground. There's a chain link fence surrounding the perimeter, cracked asphalt with weeds springing up, and a swing set that's seen better days. It's the most depressing playground Arthur's ever encountered.

He walks past the rust-eaten seesaw and tests the swing set with one hand. It seems sturdy in spite of age and disuse, supports firmly cemented into the ground, so he sits down on one of the chilly rubber seats. The chains creak precariously but hold, and he's there for some time before Eames finds him.

"Hullo," Eames says.

"Hey." Arthur forces a smile, but it's probably not very convincing. "You need me for something?"

"Oh no, not at all. I merely thought I'd take a walk, enjoy the summer evening." Eames eases into the next swing over. "Doesn't seem anyone here's much interested in me, so I told Casper to take the night off."

"That's nice," Arthur replies, only half-listening.

"Everything alright?" 

"Hm?" Arthur watches an ant crawl along a crack in the pavement. "Yeah. Yeah, sure."

Eames doesn't say anything for a minute, and all Arthur can hear is the squeaking of his swing moving gently back and forth. "I must admit I wasn't expecting to find you here. Thought you'd be out with Robert."

"Nah, looks like that's over." Arthur exhales slowly.

"Oh." Eames sounds surprised. "I--sorry. None of my business."

"It's fine." Arthur waves a hand at nothing in particular. He's not even sure if Eames is looking his way and can see him pretending to be casual. "He's really busy with being an up-and-coming fashion designer, and I spend 95% of the year hopping from city to city. It's not like it's fair to ask someone to get into it if the most I can promise is lots of calls from the road."

"Arthur, I'm sorry." To Arthur's surprise, Eames does seem genuinely sorry. "I'm sure he has his reasons, but you're--well. Some things are worth making sacrifices for."

Arthur smiles faintly. "Thanks." They sit in silence for a little while, and Arthur returns to watching the ant move towards the hill at the edge of the playground. "We only went on two dates. I know I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up, but I thought he'd be different. Which is ridiculous, because we hardly knew each other."

Eames makes a humming noise in agreement. "You know, I was married once."

"What?" Arthur turns to Eames in surprise. "I don't remember reading about that in my last issue of _Tiger Beat_."

Eames chuckles. "It didn't stick, thanks to my inability to fill out forms correctly but, yes, it happened. It was to a delightful American lass I had known for all of three days. Three passionate, steamy days that culminated in an extremely ill-advised walk down the aisle."

"Wow." Arthur tries to imagine a young Eames, walking down the aisle in some church. It's difficult. "When was this?"

"Oh, almost a decade ago, on my first tour of the United States." Eames smiles wryly. "I was younger, then, but still old enough to know better. Everyone told me it was a terrible idea, which of course it was, and Mal threatened everything from having me thrown in jail to summoning my parents. I was not to be dissuaded. So we were wed, and barely two weeks later, it was over. It turned out she wasn't quite all that I'd imagined her to be, and life on the road with a man who couldn't pay people to listen to him wasn't the wonderfully romantic existence she'd expected either."

"Why'd you do it?" Arthur asks, even though a part of him already knows the answer.

"Because she was young and beautiful, and because she was the first person who I felt truly understood my art—such as it was at the time," Eames says. "I'd had some experience with fans, even when I wasn't famous. But I'd never felt this pull towards anyone else before and I mistook excellent chemistry for love at first sight."

Arthur looks back over at the anthill. The ant's long gone by now. "Is that what you want? Someone who really gets your art? Your music?"

"I used to think it was the most important quality in a partner. How could I possibly love someone who didn't understand my fundamental artistic being and all that irritating drivel." Eames snorts. "Seven failed relationships later and I've come to realize that I didn't know what the hell I was on about. I don't need a fan who loves me for my music—I need a partner who loves me for who I am in my entirety, including the less glamorous bits."

"Yeah," Arthur says, staring up at the sky. "Hard to find that in this business though. Hard to get to know anyone like that when you're always on the move."

"Yes, I suppose it is." Eames is quiet for a moment before he looks over, smiling crookedly. "Apologies. What was meant to be the sharing of a regrettable incident in my youth for humor's sake morphed into a melancholy review of my poor romantic choices. That wasn't my intention."

"It's okay." Arthur shrugs. "It's good to know I'm not the only one who can get swept up in things that aren't real."

A companionable silence falls. "I could switch to Dior."

Arthur can't help a startled huff of laughter at that. "That won't be necessary, Eames. You look—you look amazing in Robert's clothes. They were made to be worn by you."

"Thank you. I—anyway." Eames ducks his head.

"How's um, how's Tyrell doing?" Arthur asks. 

"Oh, busy modeling and being outrageously attractive I'd imagine," Eames says vaguely. 

Arthur glances over. "I'm sure he'd find a way to pencil in an international celebrity who dresses like James Bond."

Eames chuckles. "I suppose he would." There are a few more squeaks of the swing before he says, "You know, this place makes me feel as though I'm about to be brutally murdered by the vengeful ghosts of schoolchildren."

"You too, huh?" Arthur stands up and wipes the seat of his pants. "Let's get out of here."

* * * * *

**Houston**

The pleasant thing about working night shifts with Eames is that unless there's a scheduled meet and greet, once a show is over, he's done for the night. There are no bar hops, parties, or even celebratory drinks back in the hotel suite. After a show, he will, without fail: head back to his hotel room, dismiss Arthur for the night, and presumably do whatever he needs to do (eat, drink, jerk off) before going to sleep.

All this suits Arthur fine. He has no desire to go out, and he enjoys getting to bed early so he can take a morning run with Flowers, maybe put in some time at the pool when there is one or hit the gym with Casper when there isn't. Eames will join them if the gym's not too crowded already (in which case he retreats to his room to do exercises on a mat) and it's nice. It's a good routine. Arthur likes routine, even if it's the kind that's spread across cities all over the country.

After the gym, if he's on shift he'll follow Eames around for the day, watching his back while he rehearses, or goes through his vocal training with Mal, or takes meetings with other celebrities, musicians, people in the industry. Nearly every moment of Eames' day is booked up with something to promote his album or his music, and often Ariadne or Cobb come along just to help him keep track of it all. It's a rare evening that Eames has off, but those usually get taken up quickly with social engagements—either meeting up with old friends or going on dates that, strangely, never seem to lead anywhere.

The days that Arthur has off, he spends watching Sonya on the cooking channel or visiting the restaurants she's written about with Yusuf. They have a system where Yusuf will trade one meal at a restaurant with 'doll-sized portions' (as he puts it) for one trip to Wal-Mart. Arthur figures that's fair, all things considered.

Arthur would have thought—before he signed on to guard Eames—that working with an A-List celebrity would be guaranteed drama and chaos virtually nonstop. A boozy nightmare of a high maintenance asshole complete with a circle of cloying sycophants seeking fame or money or whatever else they can get from a fragile diva ego, all of it awash in sex and drugs. But Eames and his team run more like a well-oiled machine than a free-spirited artist's collective, and most of the relatively little drama there is comes from overenthusiastic fans, paparazzi, and the outside world. 

Frankly, it's a little strange to find himself enjoying his job, his coworkers, and client. He'd resigned himself to dealing with psychotic creatives with their heads perpetually stuck up their asses, and obnoxious friends or family who were given jobs they were grossly ill-equipped to do. He'd long accepted them as the downsides married to the upsides of his job, and to be in a situation where that's proven to be untrue is—surprising. 

Arthur finds himself wheeling a cart around Wal-Mart, watching Yusuf debate the merits of buying a two pound plastic jug of peanuts, and thinks: _this is my life_ , and, _I love it_.

* * * * *

"I'm tired of room service," Eames says, tossing the hotel menu to the bed. "Do you like sushi, Arthur?"

Arthur looks up from his crossword. "I love sushi."

"Good. There's a restaurant I've had personally recommended to me multiple times." Eames gets off the bed and begins rummaging through his suitcase. "I've been meaning to try it."

"I'll call the driver to come around the front," Arthur says. "You want me to call Yusuf?"

"I suspect he'd decline to join us." Eames changes into a green button-down shirt that's outrageously flattering; Arthur tries not to stare. 

"Oh right. The fish thing." A few days back, Arthur had bought a package of smoked salmon and eaten about half of it, leaving the other half wrapped up in the fridge. This proved to be a terrible mistake, as Yusuf had gotten up for a midnight snack and let out a bloodcurdling shriek, prompting Arthur to fall out of his bunk onto the floor, ready to take down a wild animal or nighttime intruder. Arthur had spent the rest of the night wide awake and on edge, practically twitching at every bump in the road. 

On the bright side, he'd struck another deal with Yusuf in the morning vis-à-vis fish, and as a result the bus no longer smells of formaldehyde. "Is there a reason for that or is it some kind of irrational phobia?" Arthur asks.

"If there's a reason, Yusuf's taking it to his grave. Though to be honest, I am a little afraid to ask," Eames replies as he smooths his hair down. "Now, shall we?"

They make their way downstairs and through the crowd of paparazzi lingering right outside the hotel doors. ("Shit," Arthur says in a low tone as he helps lead Eames through the blinding flashbulbs, "have they been waiting all day for you to come out?" "Probably," Eames replies.) They get to the car and are promptly ensnarled in rush hour traffic, leaving Arthur plenty of time to call the restaurant and make a reservation.

They're met at the front of the restaurant and ushered through to a closed-off back room that's empty except for them. The décor is nice, upscale, with potted plants, rice paper screen doors and what look like actual tatami mats. Waitresses in yukatas flutter around pouring tea and ice water, plainly awed by Eames. Things only escalate when several men who must be the chefs enter the room.

Each of the chefs bow to Eames in turn before the one with the biggest hat lets forth a torrent of Japanese. One of the waitresses translates, "It's an honor to have you grace our restaurant with your presence, Mr. Eames. We've all listened to your music and it has brought us countless hours of joy."

" _Domo arigato gozaimasu_ ," Eames says bowing in return. "The honor is mine. My Japanese fans have been with me since the beginning of my career and without your support, I wouldn't be here now."

The waitress translates and then there are a lot of smiles and nodding and bowing all around. A busboy runs into the room at that moment, panting, carrying a plastic bottle shaped like a radish. Arthur stares at it, wondering why the hell it looks so familiar.

"If you would be willing, perhaps we could take some pictures?" the waitress asks, gesturing to the bottle. Not seeming at all perplexed by this turn of events, Eames nods, and the entire staff of the restaurant forms an orderly line to take a photo with Eames holding the drink.

The chefs merely smile or make thumbs up in the photos without saying anything to Eames, except for the one with the biggest hat who exclaims with great enthusiasm, "Tastes good!"

"Yes." Eames' smile grows ever so slightly more strained. "Yes, tastes good."

The chef points to the bottle and mimes a drinking it. "You drink?"

"Yes, I—I do drink." Eames opens the bottle wand takes a good, hearty chug of it, exposing the long line of his throat and the bob of his Adam's apple. Arthur can almost hear the collective sigh of the waitresses and shifts slightly in his seat because, well, he's not made of stone, damnit.

After Eames is done drinking, everyone in the room claps. Eames is still smiling, but the strain is growing, which is why Arthur stands up and says, "If we could see the menus now, please?"

That sends the chefs back to the kitchen. The waitresses bring them menus and then disappear (after providing a second radish-shaped bottle and some cups for the table). Eames doesn't say anything, but he shoots Arthur a tiny, relieved smile over the top of his menu.

" _Kao o Taberu Hito_ ," Arthur reads off the label of the bottle. "Is this that energy drink?"

"Yes," Eames says, burying his face in the menu.

Arthur's mouth keeps threatening to smile, but he forces it down through sheer willpower. "You gonna tell me what that was all about?"

"This _omakase_ looks excellent," Eames says loudly. "What do you think, Arthur? You up for it?"

Arthur looks down at the description underneath the word _omakase_ , which is simply, 'Chef's choice.' "Sure. But first—" He reaches across the table and opens the second bottle of _Kao o Taberu Hito_ and pours it into a cup. "I'm gonna try this."

Eames' face is utterly blank as Arthur takes a sip, then another. "Well?"

"Tastes like Peach Schnapps," Arthur says thoughtfully. "Is this alcoholic?"

"The devil if I know what's in there." Eames pointedly takes a sip of his tea.

"You know it's only a matter of time before I figure out what's going on, don't you?" When he doesn't reply, Arthur continues, "I'm serious. I can bribe Ariadne to use the Googler to track down your secrets."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Eames says nonchalantly, wetting his thumb before turning another page in the menu. "And I am hardly intimidated by someone who uses the word _Googler_."

Arthur sits back in his seat smugly. "You just wait. I have Ariadne and the Googler on my side."

* * * * *

"You know I'm only going to agree to this if you let me revamp your site, don't you?" Ariadne says, fingers poised over the keyboard.

"Alright fine, you win the website," Arthur says. "But don't go crazy now. I don't want a blog or Facebooker or any other fancy bells and whistles kids are putting on these days. All Iwant is for people to be able to look up my site, see my credentials, and read a little bit about me."

"Including your passion for fine dining, heavy weaponry, and menswear?" At Arthur's disapproving frown, she sighs. "Okay, yes, just the boring bodyguard facts. I hear you loud and clear, Gelinator."

"Good." Arthur leans over her shoulder to peer at the screen. "So about this energy drink."

"According to the translator, _Kao o taberu hito_ mean 'Person who eats his face.'" Ariadne pauses. "Huh. Kind of gives new meaning to the phrase, 'being the face of a brand.'"

There are photos of the familiar radish-shaped bottle stamped with smiley faces. "Does it have radishes in it?"

"You know, I go out of my way to make a funny and not even a courtesy laugh," Ariadne grumbles as she brings up an ingredient list. "Nope. No radishes."

"Then why—" Arthur stops when she clicks another link, a video filling the screen while upbeat, fast-paced music comes on. There's narration in Japanese before Eames appears, wearing a tight white leather jacket and pants, gyrating on some kind of stage. Behind him is a sea of animated radishes, laughing and twirling as he pauses to take a long sip of the energy drink that appears in his hand. This runs for about thirty seconds, with phrases appearing in the background above the radishes like, 'Boost your creative juices!' and 'Yum yums!'

At the end of the commercial, Eames thrusts the bottle forward while grinning toothily at the camera and says, "Tastes good!"

"What," Ariadne says in the ensuing stunned silence. "What was that?"

"Something amazing," Arthur replies solemnly as she hits replay.

  
[ ](http://i.imgur.com/tTkX0.png)

* * * * *

It happens while Arthur's backstage in the lounge. He's in the middle of his rounds and stops in to pick up a couple of crackers before continuing on the rest of his route. The room had been empty, the blare of Eames' music still audible, though muffled, through the walls. Arthur doesn't even realize he's doing anything until—

"What was that?" Mal's standing in the doorway.

"What?" Arthur repeats around a mouth full of cracker.

She eyes him suspiciously. "What was that noise?"

"I'm pretty sure that's Eames singing," Arthur says as he glances around, checking to make sure he hasn't missed any other possible sources.

"Eames does not make any sound which is off-key," Mal says, staring Arthur down in a most unsettling manner.

"Um." He backs out of the room with his crackers. "I should get back to my rotation."

Mal says nothing else, but he can feel her eyes on his back all the way down the hallway.


	5. The Sorbet

> The preparation of food can be about ego, about saying _I know what's best_ in putting such and such together, in frying instead of baking, in seasoning with one spice to the exclusion of all the rest. But cooking is also about giving, about the essential act of providing nourishment for yourself or another, about taking the time to do so rather than nuking a TV dinner and being done with it. Cooking can be about pleasure as well, about the immense sensuality of creating and ingesting, absorbing and swallowing, of the peace that settles when a hunger--literal or metaphorical--is satisfied.
> 
> What is love but providing nourishment, giving pleasure and quenching want? What is love but freedom from the hunger which drives every moment of our lives? What is loving, but to love and be loved, to give and be given, to consume and bestow, to be made joyful and content?  
>  - _The Land and Food We Live On_ , by Sonya Roy

**Memphis**

Arthur studies the laptop screen. "Why are there photographs of me plastered all over the internet?"

"Because I'm trying to get you more dates," Ariadne replies. At Arthur's startled expression, she adds, "Kidding! And these photos aren't plastered all over the internet, only your website."

"Okay," he says slowly. "That still doesn't answer the essential question of why."

"Studies have found that people respond more positively to products associated with an attractive person." Ariadne goes back to staring at the screen and rapid-fire typing. "See: every car commercial in the history of ever. See also: book jackets featuring photos of authors who do not look like they belong under a bridge."

"Wait," Arthur says, grabbing her shoulder with urgency. "That word you said—books. Tell me more."

"Full of pages, made of dead trees, can be soft or hard—" When he starts cracking up, she stops. "Oh, ha ha, you got me, old man. See if I ever try to help you get laid again."

Arthur stops laughing. "Wait. What?"

"What?" she echoes innocently. "Anyway, stop being so uptight. You're a hot bodyguard to the stars! You should shake what you got."

"Ariadne," Cobb says mildly. His entrance onto the tour bus is punctuated by the crackling sound of an abandoned bag of Cheetos being stepped on. Ariadne seems unperturbed, and makes no move to go pick it up. "Did I hear you tell Arthur to shake it?"

"I told him that a few measly photos of him standing around guarding stuff isn't going to ruin his rep as a badass tough guy," she replies. "And it's not like people don't already know what you look like. There are like, a million photos of you all over the tabloids with Eames."

"Don't remind me," Arthur says, sighing. No matter how many interviews Eames gives declaring his single and ready to mingle status, the tabloids refuse to stop hounding them. Arthur never thought the day would come when any paparazzi would give a shit about him, but in the last few weeks they've been extra aggressive in trying to get 'couples' photos.

On the other hand, the increased publicity has resulted in Arthur getting a lot more offers for work. People have begun calling Cobb regularly, wanting to know how to contact Arthur. And when he put a contact phone number up on his website at Ariadne's behest, it had resulted in so many calls they had to take it down within a week. Granted, many of those were spambots, but at least a fair amount were security firm recruiters, the managers of other musicians, entertainers, and even a politician—all interested in hiring Arthur for their personal security. 

He told them that he was booked until the end of Eames' tour and refused to make any solid plans for after that. A part of Arthur hopes that Eames asks him to stay on even when he goes back to England, but so far he hasn't brought it up and neither has Cobb.

"Oh, Arthur," Cobb says. "I checked into the dates you were asking about and it should be fine for your sister to come. The only week that's not gonna be good is this upcoming week—the Duke and Duchess are coming to visit."

The 'Duke and Duchess' are Eames' nicknames for his parents. Arthur isn't sure whether Eames is actually titled gentry or if it's another one of his jokes referencing how Americans believe everyone in Britain is related to the royal family. Arthur doesn't want to ask and prove Eames' point if it's the latter.

"Are they staying for the whole week?" Arthur asks.

"They probably won't even be staying at all." Cobb shakes his head. "But trust me, you're not going to want your sister around during that week."

Arthur raises an eyebrow at Ariadne, who shrugs helpfully. "Okay, well. I'll let her know."

"So her name's Una, right?" Ariadne asks. "Is she hot?"

"Yes and yes, but she's the straight one." After raising Arthur's older sister, who had declared herself a lesbian at the tender age of ten, and then Arthur, who apparently managed to snag himself a playground husband in kindergarten (he remembers nothing of this), their father had been excited to finally deliver the birds and the bees talk he'd been perfecting for years to at least one of his offspring. Perhaps too excited, if Una's aversion to dating for three years after that was any indication. "Unless she's on another one of her experimental kicks again."

"Aw man." Then Ariadne brightens. "I could be an experiment!"

"This conversation is making me uncomfortable," Cobb says. "I think I'm going to show myself out. Arthur, the buses will be getting back on the road again in fifteen minutes."

"Okay, and thanks," Arthur replies.

"Is she on Facebook?" Ariadne asks, already searching.

"You know, being creepy is not exactly the best way to get my brotherly blessing."

"Psh, like I need your blessing," she scoffs. "If anything, I'm better off with brotherly disapproval. That way she has something to actively rebel against in her sexy experiment."

Arthur thinks back to the long list of dubious men—and the occasional woman—that Una has introduced him to over the years, and is forced to conclude that Ariadne is probably onto something. "How about this, then? You and my sister are both grown women who can make their own decisions about what they choose to do and who they choose to do it with."

"God, Arthur," Ariadne groans as he heads off the bus. "Why you gotta be such a cockblock?"

* * * * * * 

"The Duke and Duchess are in the building. I repeat: the Duke and Duchess are in the building," Casper's voice comes in almost painfully loud across Arthur's earpiece. "Flowers is escorting them backstage. Get the little prince ready."

"Shit," Arthur mutters as he hurries over to Eames' dressing room door and pounds on the door. "Eames, your parents are here. They're coming backstage."

"They what?" Eames flings open the door, costume still on and stage makeup smeared across his face. "When did they arrive? Why didn't someone tell me?"

"The people at the box office just called five minutes ago to let us know your parents picked up the tickets," Arthur replies. "Flowers is bringing them backstage right now."

"Bloody fucking—" Eames whirls around and makes a beeline for his closet, rummaging through it until he pulls out a plain gray sweater Arthur's never seen before. He's throwing off his costume before Arthur even shuts the door.

"Hey, Flowers," Arthur says into his microphone. "Can you show them the long way around? Eames needs a few minutes."

"Copy that," she replies.

Eames is scrubbing his face and trying to shove his hair into a sideways part simultaneously, with mixed results. Arthur moves around the room, picking up the abandoned pieces of costume and clothing, hanging them up while Eames finishes his frantic preparations.

"Alright," Eames says, turning to Arthur. He's wearing the gray sweater, some dull brown corduroy pants, and his hair has been gelled into submission. "How do I look?"

Arthur steps forward to wipe a smudge of glitter from Eames' cheekbone. "Like somebody else."

He nods once, sharply. "Good."

"Incoming," Casper murmurs in Arthur's ear.

"Come on," Arthur says, leading Eames towards the door.

They step into the hallway and come face to face with an older couple who must be Eames' parents. They're dressed in colorless clothing and share his striking bone structure. Despite that similarity, Arthur can't see very much of Eames in them at all. "Mother, Father. It's so good to see you. How are you? How was your flight?"

"I don't know who told the airline that the service they provided was first class, because it wasn't fit to transport livestock, much less people," Eames' father says. "I was expecting more from the glowing recommendation you gave us."

Arthur watches the words land like a slap across Eames' face. "I deeply apologize," he says. "I had no idea the service would be so subpar. I—you should have rang, I could have—"

"We should have notified you of your poor choice after there was nothing to be done?" His mother's graying hair is pulled back from her face in a severe bun, her lips pursed and tone imperious. "Of course. I suppose we should have expected you to abdicate all responsibility at the first opportunity—it's not as if that's something which is going to change for the better after all these years."

Arthur barely holds back a flinch, and glances behind them at Flowers, who looks resigned as she shakes her head helplessly. 

"Did you enjoy the show?" Eames asks weakly. "I wasn't aware you'd be arriving tonight, otherwise I would have—"

"It seems as if they grow more deafening with every year," his father replies, no trace of a smile to be found. "My ears are still ringing as we speak."

"I'm so sorry," Eames says. "I must have forgotten to leave the earplugs at the office alongside your tickets. I—"

"Yes, it's easy to imagine how important details could be lost in the chaotic shuffle back here," his mother replies, eyes sliding over Flowers with faint disdain. "And I see you continue to wear those outlandish costumes of yours. You'd think performing those lewd routines would be enough."

Arthur has watched Eames keep his cool when asked every sort of interview question, ranging from shockingly personal inquiries to thinly veiled insults about Eames' shows, his clothing, and his music. Even in the face of the most belligerent and aggressive interviewer, he always replies with grace, delivering the calm rebuttals he and Constanza trained for in a manner that seems good-humored but firm. _I'm not ashamed of who I am_ , Eames once said, _and I won't allow anyone else to shame me, either_.

Arthur waits for Eames to lift his chin and defend himself, but he swallows and looks away. "I'm sorry the show wasn't up to your standard. I didn't realize you'd be in attendance and—"

"Yes, well. We have come to temper our expectations of you," his father says. "Now, have you arranged for us to be transported back to our hotel in some manner? Or should we be searching for some errant death-traps to sit in?"

"I've a limousine that we should all fit into. Unless you'd prefer I call you a car?"

"I suppose we might as well share. God knows how many pounds you're already wasting on trivialities," his mother says, gaze flickering toward Arthur in the first acknowledgment of his presence since they arrived.

"If you'll allow me a moment to gather my things," Eames says before disappearing into the dressing room. His parents stare pointedly at the walls, ignoring Arthur and Flowers, who stand in silence. When Eames returns, they all set off towards the car. 

Outside, Eames pauses briefly to sign a few autographs for the crowd gathered outside while his parents glance at their watches. Inside the limo, he asks, "How long were you planning to stay? I've a flexible schedule this week, and could give you a tour. Did you know Memphis is a rather important city within the American music industry?"

"We have a flight first thing in the afternoon tomorrow. I expect we've seen all we wish to of this particular locale," his father replies. "Perhaps you can redirect all of that free time you have in your schedule towards something productive. I know it's practically written in a handbook that celebrities should do nothing but shop and gallivant about in their underwear at parties, but I do occasionally like to think you aren't as empty-headed as all that quite yet."

Eames closes his eyes while Arthur quietly clenches his fist in the fabric of his jacket. "We could get breakfast, then, before your flight. I can take the car out with you to the airport and help with your bags."

"Perhaps you ought to skip the breakfast," his mother says, eyes sweeping over him disapprovingly. "I see you've started filling out. Must be all the McDonalds and whatever else you've been eating out here."

Eames falls quiet, and the rest of the ride is spent in uncomfortable silence that is still somehow better than the alternative. He dismisses Arthur as soon as they reach the hotel, and walks his parents back to their room alone.

"Wow," Arthur says in the elevator ride upstairs with Flowers. "Are they always like this?"

"I think you might have caught them on a good day," she replies. Arthur looks over and there's not a hint of a smile on her face—only exhaustion.

When they reach the twenty-third floor, Casper's waiting there to meet them. "Have the dragons returned to their cave yet?"

Arthur cracks a smile. "Eames took them back. They're flying out tomorrow. Gotta go terrorize a village and defend their hoard of gold."

"It's always rough for the Boss-man after they leave," Casper says.

"Yeah," Arthur says. "I can see why."

* * * * * * 

The next morning, Arthur accompanies Eames and his parents to breakfast, where Eames eats approximately three baby carrots and a handful of lettuce. He's wearing another muted shirt—this time pea colored—and says little as they go the airport. He leaves them at the security line with a brisk nod and, "Thank you for coming all this way."

On the drive back into the city proper, Eames sags back in his seat and closes his eyes. Arthur debates internally for a moment before finally saying, "Are you okay?"

"They came, they saw, they razed to the ground," Eames replies with a slight twist of his lips. "I'm sorry you had to see all that."

"You don't need to apologize to me," Arthur says quietly. 

"Right," Eames says as he stares out the window. "I think I should like a drink."

When they get back to the hotel, Eames raids his mini bar and offers some to Arthur, who declines. Eames is downing his fourth tiny bottle of vodka on the couch when there's a knock on the door. Eames doesn't seem inclined to move, so Arthur gets up to let Mal in.

She takes one look at Eames before saying, "Oh, my beautiful bird." He doesn't stop drinking, but he allows Mal to sit down and put her arms around him. "Do not stop singing because a deaf man cannot hear your voice."

"I'm fine," he says, but his eyes are bloodshot.

She tucks her feet up and leans her head upon his shoulder. "Do you remember when we first met? How I heard your voice through the washroom wall and knew I had to meet you, had to make you sing for me?"

"I thought you were mad," Eames says, putting down an empty bottle and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I thought you were trying to scam me."

"You had a train to catch, so I took it with you though I had no ticket. Because I knew, _I knew_ , that you were special." She plucks a half-empty bottle from Eames' grasp and downs it in one gulp. "And I was right."

"You're not always right," he says. "You remember that haircut you insisted I try?"

Mal chuckles and takes both his hands in hers. "I'm not always wrong, either."

"Maybe," Eames says as he leans against her and closes his eyes.

* * * * * * 

"Hey, Eames, Arthur," Cobb says as he enters the suite.

Eames smiles up at him from behind his laptop. "Coming to check up on me, are you? I swear, reports of my being hungover have been greatly exaggerated. I should be fully able to perform tonight."

"Good to know," Cobb replies as he takes a seat. "But I actually came to deliver some news. It took a few weeks and a lot of phone calls, but—Celestine Lee has agreed to do a shoot with you."

Eames sits up so fast his laptop nearly falls to the floor. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack." Cobb shares an amused look with Arthur. "Only catch is: she wants to do it with an Eames chair. I could try persuading her to do something else, but—"

"Oh no no, it's fine, leave it be." Eames places his laptop on the couch and stands, beginning to pace the length of the room. "An Eames chair with her is like—well, I don't really know what to compare it to, it's bound to be so wonderful."

"Let me guess," Arthur says. "She's not the first person to put together the Eames in an Eames chair bit."

"Everyone thinks they're the first," Cobb says.

"There was one shoot I did early in my career which involved a knockoff chair, a bidet, and a goat." Eames shakes his head. "At the end of it, I resembled a cloven-hoofed creature emerging from the depths of Hades. That was when I swore: never again."

"But exceptions have to be made for Celestine Lee," Cobb says.

The despondency lifts from Eames' features for the first time all week, and Arthur smiles. "Congratulations. I'm sure you're going to look amazing, whatever she does."

"She can make anybody look like a million sterling or a strung out crack addict. Sometimes both simultaneously." Eames lets out a dreamy sigh. "I can't wait."

 

 **New Orleans**

"Is Eames as hot in person as he looks on TV?" is the first thing Una asks when Arthur picks her up at the airport.

"Why yes, I'm doing great, thanks for asking. How about you?" Arthur says as he takes her suitcase.

"Well, obviously you're doing great. I mean, you're working for Eames!" she exclaims, drawing the stares of a few people around them. "Anyway, answer the question. Should I be expecting someone who's only five feet tall? Celebrities are always way shorter than they appear."

"The similarities are eerie," Arthur says mostly to himself as he watches Una adjust the scarf around her neck; he thinks Ariadne might have that exact same scarf.

"What?"

"He's 5'10" and drop dead gorgeous," he says as he leads her out to the rental car. "He doesn't sleep with fans, though."

"That's impossible. There'd be nobody left to sleep with," Una says as she hops in the car. "I was standing in line at the bank when one of his songs came on, and all the tellers plus the elderly male bank manager teared up at the part where he sings about wanting to be loved for the man he is, not the man other people want him to be."

"That was probably allergies," Arthur replies. "I hear the pollen count has been through the roof this summer."

"Just because you have a cold and lifeless heart that can't be touched by the voice of an angel doesn't mean the rest of the world shares your condition." She reclines her seat back and props her feet up on the dashboard. "Even Beth bought his album. And you know the rest of her CD collection is stuck somewhere in the 80's."

"Feet off," Arthur says automatically, earning him a sour expression. "And how is Beth? I call, but we end up playing time-zone tag for days."

"She's alright. Busy as always because, you know," Una drops her voice and scrunches up her face in a hilariously accurate rendition of their sister, "it isn't easy being one of the youngest, top-ranked cardiothoracic surgeons in the country. I barely have time to sleep, I'm performing so many life-saving open-heart surgeries. Did I mention that I'm one of the youngest, top-ranked cardiothoracic surgeons in the country and possibly the world?"

Arthur lets out a snort of laughter. "I can't believe she's still talking about that ranking."

"I can't believe she talks about anything else," Una says. "Lou Ann caught me doing one of my impressions and cackled like a hyena for an hour."

"Is Beth still in the doghouse for forgetting their anniversary?"

"God, yes. And Lou Ann somehow figured out that Beth didn't pick out her make-up gift--one of the poor interns did."

Arthur snorts again, imagining Lou Ann's fury. "You'd think Beth would learn after the first year she forgot a major date."

"Well, I hear performing cardiothoracic surgery can induce sudden and incurable memory loss," Una replies seriously.

When they arrive at the hotel, Arthur helps Una drag all her bags upstairs ("Why do you have so many bags? And what the hell did you put inside these—a dead body?" "Like you're one to talk, Mr. I need a different waistcoat for every day of the week.")

They spend the day exploring the French Quarter and stop in for dinner at Sonya's favorite Cajun place for gumbo and jambalaya (spicy, rich, filled with freshly caught shrimp and crayfish) before Arthur leaves Una with a ticket to the show. "Front row center," he says as she practically dances in place. "He's got a lot to do tonight, but after the show I'll introduce you."

"This almost makes up for when you turned my high school boyfriend gay," Una says.

"Look, all I did was say, 'hey, Dave, nice to meet you,'" Arthur says. "That boner was all him."

"But you couldn't have waited to come home in your fancy officer's uniform until _after_ he de-virginized me?" she says. "It took me a year before I found another guy I could stand."

"Una, I hate to break it to you but: sex with Dave probably would not have been that great."

"Of course it wouldn't be great. Sex for the first time is never great," she snaps. "Why do you think I picked a gay guy? All I wanted was someone who wouldn't be a jerk about it after."

* * * * * * 

"Una, it's a pleasure." Eames smiles warmly as he shakes her hand. "Arthur's told me so much about you."

She practically melts into a puddle of giggles and hair-twirling, but Arthur's used to it by now. Eames has this effect on a lot of people. "I'm a really, really big fan."

"I'm so happy you enjoy my work," Eames says, charm emanating off him in waves. "I hear you'll be joining us for the next few days. If there's anything I can do, you must let me know."

"I—um. Could—could I get a hug?"

"Of course." Eames leans forward in the limo seat. "I must warn you that I may be a bit heated, still. I took a shower, but you know how these things can be."

"Oh my god!" Una mouths over his shoulder as they embrace. Arthur suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. "That's fine. I don’t mind."

Arthur listens to the two of them talk for the rest of the ride, Eames playing up his modest, yet mysterious, musician persona to the hilt while Una fawns over him like any other star-struck fan. Arthur's thrilled when the ride ends, ready for the evening to be over, but when they step inside the hotel, Eames says, "Care for a nightcap?"

"Oh for sure!" Una chirps.

"Excellent," Eames says as he heads towards the elevator. Arthur realizes with a sinking feeling that Eames means for the drinking to take place up in his suite and not at the hotel bar which—well. 

Arthur walks them both to Eames' door before he says, "If it's okay with you, I'd like to turn in for the night, Eames. I'm pretty tired." His sister may be a grown woman and Eames a free agent, but that doesn't mean he wants to be on duty while they sleep together. Arthur knows it's probably unprofessional to beg off, but hopefully Eames will be too distracted to notice the lapse.

"You—" Eames pauses as he opens the door, but Una barrels onwards into the suite, calling out,

"Okay, goodnight, Artie! See you tomorrow!"

"Yes," Eames says, clearing his throat. "Goodnight, Art—Arthur."

"Goodnight, guys," Arthur replies as he heads down the hallway towards the elevators. At least he's on a different floor for a change, and won't have to spend the entire night listening to horrifying noises on top of everything else.

* * * * * * 

Arthur briefly considers trying to avoid breakfast with his sister the next day, but doing so won't make anything that happened _un_ -happen, so he decides to start trying to deal as soon as possible.

Una eventually shows up in the dining room half an hour late (which he'd expected) looking hungover and decidedly haggard (not exactly what he expected). She grunts a g'morning at Arthur before slinking off to get coffee, returning with a plate loaded down with half the continental breakfast buffet. With her hair tied back in a ponytail, no makeup, and a surly countenance, Arthur is struck by how young she looks, and how she used to come down to the breakfast table as a child with roughly the same expression she's wearing now.

He folds down his newspaper and pushes an unopened pad of butter towards her. "Aw, is Nah-nah cranky?"

"Nah-nah is cranky and slept in a very weird position," she mutters, accepting the butter and spreading it across some toast. At some point during elementary school, Una had started referring to herself in the third person, except she'd had some speech difficulties back then and ended up calling herself 'Nah-nah' for convenience's sake. This had coupled with exceedingly important (or so she believed) declarations of her every mood and whim, ranging from, 'Nah-nah hungry!' to 'Nah-nah wants to run in the rain with no shoes on!' Remembering all these things almost cancels out the ache Arthur feels when he imagines her and Eames together.

"Sorry to hear that," he says as he takes a long sip of his coffee. It goes down a little bitter.

"I think I feel too shitty to keep drinking," she says as she takes a vicious bite of her toast. "And I'm in New Orleans, so what the fuck?"

"You could go back to bed," Arthur suggests. "I can come by later for dinner and we can skip seeing the Garden District."

"No, a nap won't help me." She sighs deeply. "I'll get through it. Somehow. But you know, this is all your fault."

"My fault?" Arthur says, trying to keep his tone mild but there's some anger creeping in. "How's that again?"

"If it weren't for you, I could have gone to bed at a reasonable hour and not had a bazillion drinks. As soon as you left, all Eames wanted to do was talk talk talk, and all about you." She affects a high British accent, "What was Arthur like as a sprog? He had dental work done, you say, how utterly delightful! His favorite color is green, I had no idea! Arthur can be so closed-mouthed, you know. Why the other day, Arthur did blah de blah blah." Una ends by blowing a raspberry. 

"Oh. I—I didn't know." Arthur looks down at the newspaper and smooths some of the creases, unable to suppress a small pang of relief, and perhaps something else.

"It was worse than hanging out with Dave after he met you. At least Dave tried to be subtle about it." Una finishes her toast and then begins shoveling the rest of the food into her mouth. "God, why didn’t you tell me you were sleeping with Eames? Then I would have brought those scrapbooks Dad made with all those embarrassing childhood photos of you."

"Because I'm not. I wouldn't." At her skeptical expression, Arthur says, "I don't sleep with clients, Una, not after what's happened before. You know that."

She studies him for a moment before relenting. "Yeah, well, he's kind of over the moon for you."

"He dates plenty of people," Arthur says with forced casualness. "I'm just someone he sees on a daily basis that looks out for him. It'll pass as soon as he meets up with some gorgeous A-List star who understands his weird celebrity life."

She finishes her food and puts her fork down. "Is that really what you want?"

"What I want is to keep doing my job. I mean, I wasn't sure I'd be able to find anything I gave a crap about after the military, but—" He pauses. "All it takes to get blackballed in this industry is one person. One person can erase all the good work you've ever done, especially if that person is big and famous and charming as hell."

"Yeah," Una says, and looks down at her empty plate. "I hear you. It just sucks, because he seems pretty great."

 

**Chicago**

"I can't believe I missed your hot sister," Ariadne gripes for the hundredth time. 

"You also missed the dragons," Arthur replies tranquilly. "I think it evens out."

"Ugh, I am never getting sick ever again," she says. "I miss everything good."

"If it's any consolation, Yusuf said he didn't think Una was that hot," Arthur says.

"Well, Yusuf is blinded by love and science. Literally in the second case—I think he's starting to lose the depth-perception in his left eye because he forgets to put on goggles," Ariadne says. "Pratchi's coming to visit soon, isn't she? Seems like it's the month for tour guests even though it's been hot as balls."

"Yeah, she's coming in a couple of days," Arthur says. "Which is part of why I came to talk to you. I was wondering whether I could ride with you and Flowers while Pratchi's here, give Yusuf and her a chance to catch up on the bus."

"You mean have freaky-deaky sex all over your stuff," Ariadne replies as she digs between the couch cushions and finds a half-eaten bag of potato chips. "It's cool with me, as long as you're okay with having penises drawn on you while you sleep. I'll try to stop her, but Flowers is pretty sneaky."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's Flowers I need to worry about," he replies dryly. "The other reason I came by was to tell you there may need to be some damage control tweetering. I think you gave Eames that stomach bug because he's been vomiting all day. I'm pretty sure we're gonna have to cancel the show tonight."

"Arthur," she sighs as she munches on chips. "Twitter is the noun, tweet is the verb. There is no 'tweeter'. Also: that sucks donkey balls. Tell Eames I'm sorry I inadvertently ruined his life."

"Yeah, well, he's being stubborn right now and insisting he can still perform," Arthur says as he heads off the tour bus. "You should probably make some twitters in the next hour so fans can be prepared."

* * * * * * 

"You can't go on like this," Cobb says for the fiftieth time. "We need to call the arena staff to let them know."

"You're wrong," Eames rasps as he hobbles around the bedroom. "I'll admit I was feeling somewhat under the weather earlier this morning, but now that I've vomited approximately thirty percent of my bodyweight into the toilet, the bin, and one very unfortunate potted plant, I'm feeling much improved."

"Remember when you nearly collapsed in Berlin?" Cobb asks. "Remember how we had to fucking wheel you out on a stretcher after the show? This venue has thousands more people and you perform ten more songs."

"Which is precisely why I can't cancel the show," Eames says as he eases out of his sleep-shirt into a baggy sweatshirt. Under his tan, his skin has a greenish cast. "Thousands of people paid to come see me. I can't let them all down."

"They'll understand," Arthur says. "They'll be disappointed, but they know that you're human and humans get sick sometimes."

"I'm not that ill," Eames says, leaning heavily against the back of a chair as he changes into a pair of jeans. "I told you, I'm feeling much better. By show time I should be right as rain."

Arthur and Cobb exchange a look before Arthur says, "Your voice sounds terrible. Mal overheard you singing in the shower earlier and told me to tell you. It's what she'd be saying right now if she weren't terrified of coming in here and catching your disease."

That stops Eames. "She didn't really."

Cobb shrugs and Arthur keeps his face as blank as possible. "You disagree with her assessment?"

Eames sits down on the edge of the bed and heaves a huge sigh. "Cancel the show."

"Okay," Cobb says as he heads into the common area of the hotel suite. "I'll go let the venue know."

"You made the right call," Arthur says.

"Don't patronize me, Arthur." Eames flops backwards on the mattress. "You're lucky you have an accent which makes everything you say sound adorable, else I'd be very cross with you."

"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames." Arthur smiles slightly as he shuts the door. 

Cobb raises an eyebrow at Arthur as they move away from the bedroom. "I guess I should go make sure Mal remembers what she overheard."

"The walls between the hallway and the bathroom are very thin," Arthur replies mildly. "You never know what you might hear as you're walking to the ice machine."

"Yeah," Cobb agrees, amused. "You never know."

* * * * * * 

"Teddy," Eames says as he sits up a bit straighter on the bed. "How are you, you old so-and-so?"

"Better than you seem to be doing, you silly thing. I'd give you a great big wet one, but you know what a hypochondriac I am." Téodoro—Teddy—has warm brown eyes, perfectly plucked eyebrows, and carries a bit of paunch around his well-styled waist. Eames had practically lit up when Arthur had mentioned _Tiger Beat_ and adamantly refused to cancel, insisting that 'Teddy' would never forgive him.

"The doctor assured me I'm no longer contagious," Eames says. "Unless you'd prefer to keep shouting from across the room for the duration of this interview."

Téodoro laughs as he drags a chair up to the side of the bed. "I didn't realize you were still this sick—you should have canceled. My editor would have understood."

"I feel perfectly fine. It's these mother hens hovering about that have kept me bed-ridden," Eames says, eying Arthur. "All I've done today is watch cooking shows filled with food I can't eat. I'm starting to think my bodyguard is actually a sadist."

"You said you didn't care what we watched," Arthur protests.

"Don't pay attention to him," Téodoro stage whispers to Arthur. "Eames somehow manages to get even more dramatic when he's sick. I know, I couldn't believe such a thing was possible at first, either."

"Filth and lies," Eames declares, but he's grinning. "For that, you truly do deserve the pox."

"What, only me and not both my houses?"

"Your mother is a marvelous woman and I wish only the best in life upon her," Eames says. "I can't attest to your father, since every time we encountered each other he acted as if I was a bizarre alien from a galaxy far, far away."

"I told you not to take it personally. He treated all of my boyfriends like that." Arthur blinks at Téodoro's words. "My mother still asks about you. 'Do you know who I heard on the radio yesterday? That British _muchacho_ you used to bring around. He gets more and more handsome every time I see him on the TV.'"

"Your mother is a very wise woman." Eames smiles, and for a second it's almost sad. "In any case, you have caught me in a weakened and disadvantaged state. I fully expect you to employ your wiliest reporter's tricks in order to ensnare me in some scandal."

"You know me, the master of hard-hitting investigative journalism." Téodoro lowers his voice dramatically, "So tell me, Eames, what are your thoughts on the Middle East?"

"They run quite deep, I assure you. But wouldn't you rather know my star sign?"

"I'm afraid I already covered that in my last interview with you and I never retread my material," Téodoro replies gravely. "Once you've finished up on the Middle East, _Tiger Beat_ readers deserve to know your thoughts on nuclear development in North Korea and what approach the rest of the world should take in regards to that."

"First of all, this confirms everything I've ever told you about a man of your talents and intellect being wasted at the rag you write for, and two, the question I really think you're asking right now is how I prefer my eggs to be cooked. To which I must respond: sunny side up."

"Not all of us can be rock stars," Téodoro replies with a smile that's both fond and a little exasperated. "Some of us have to content ourselves with mediocre jobs to pay the bills."

"You can't really believe that this is the best employ you can ever attain," Eames says.

"I can believe that there's more to life than career and giving everything else up to further it," Téodoro says, something hardening in his voice as he meets Eames' gaze. After a moment, Eames looks away, shaking his head. Silence falls as Téodoro takes out a small digital recorder. "Anyway, let's talk a little bit about your tour. How's it's going so far?"

Eames' expression melts into something less open, voice taking on the practiced naturalism he has. "It's been excellent. American fans are fantastic—so enthusiastic, so appreciative. I couldn't be happier with the way everything's gone."

"You have a pretty decent sized setlist thanks to the five albums you've put out already. Any songs you enjoy performing even after all this time?"

"I find that my affection for songs tends to wax and wane in relation to what's going on in my life at the moment. It's not so much a question of age as whether the emotion of a song speaks to something I'm going through currently."

"So what's speaking to you right now?"

"Oh, there's one that's about being sick and tired—terribly obvious as I lie here, bedridden," Eames says. "And there's another one, _Closer to You_."

Téodoro glances up from his notes with a startled expression. "The ballad, right? About falling in love again?"

"Yes." Arthur looks at Eames, and his eyes don't waver from Téodoro's face. "America, you know. Every time I come back, I discover something new to adore."

Téodoro's expression is shrewd, thoughtful. "Of course, America loves you too." He glances down at his notepad. "What's next, after the tour? Have you started making plans for a new album?"

"As a matter of fact, I have." Eames grins. "After the tour I'll be flying back to London, taking a few weeks to gather my material. I've been writing a great deal this past year, as well as reaching out to musicians and producers I'd love to collaborate with."

"You always put a lot of thought into the work you do," Téodoro says. "What are you expecting your next album to be about?"

"I'm honestly not sure yet," Eames replies. "My first few albums were about learning who I was, but I think I've a better handle on that by now. The question to answer is: what do I do with the knowledge now that I have it?"

"In the first interview we did together you said, and I quote, 'I want to conquer the world.'" Téodoro smiles. "I'd say that based on your album sales and sold-out concerts, you've done that. Is there anything else you're angling for now that you're on top?"

"A love that lasts." Arthur starts, because that's definitely off the script, and even Eames seems surprised at his words. "I suppose that's a part of getting older, isn't it? Wanting to find someone who'll take you as you are and keep you."

Téodoro switches off the recorder, and that's when Arthur notices the ring on his left hand. "It is nice," Téodoro says, reaching out to squeeze Eames' ankle through the comforter. "And I know you'll get there one day, because you are Eames, and you always get what you want."

"Really?" Eames asks, and he sounds uncertain, almost young.

"I'm so sure I'm going to make you promise that I'll be first person you call to cover your tricked-out celebrity wedding."

Eames snorts, and the serious mood passes. "You and your celebrity weddings."

"I love a good party, what can I say?" Téodoro says as he switches the recorder back on and continues the interview.

* * * * * * 

Later, while Arthur is escorting Téodoro downstairs to the hotel lobby, Téodoro says, "This probably won't surprise you, but Eames is a romantic at heart."

"What?" Arthur, who'd been fantasizing about the Sonya-recommended, Chicago-style hot dog he'd be having later, wondered if they'd been holding a conversation without him realizing. He didn't think they had, but food did tend to distract him.

"I'm not much for romance. Hell, when my husband officially proposed to me, it was when we were online searching for rings we liked." Téodoro rocks back and forth on his feet. "But Eames likes the grand gestures. He likes the little stuff too, but the big stuff appeals to his theatricality."

"Um," Arthur says, as the elevator doors ding for the ground floor. "I'll be sure to tell the next person he dates to remember the grand gestures, I guess."

"Alright." Téodoro chuckles as he steps out. "As long as you remember to tell them."

* * * * * * 

**Detroit**

"I think I'm going slowly insane," Arthur whispers as he locks himself in the bus bathroom. "I don't know how much more I can take."

He can practically hear Cobb smile across the phone line. "Ariadne's that bad, huh?"

"It's not the pranks, or even the sneaking suspicion that by the end of this I'm going to have a penis permanently tattooed across my forehead," Arthur replies. "It's the fact that I'm wading through a _foot of trash_. They don't use a garbage can. They never finish eating their food. Last night I sat down in a chair only to discover four M &M's, a crushed Dorito, and twenty Junior Mints all squashed underneath the cushion. I feel like I'm in a special candy episode of _Hoarders_."

Cobb laughs.

"Stop laughing," Arthur hisses. "I need to get off this bus. I'll ride with the roadies and sleep on the floor, I don't care. If I keep going at this rate, every pair of pants I own will have chocolate fused to the fabric by the end of the week."

"Alright, alright, I'll talk to Mal and see if you can ride out the next couple of days with us," Cobb says soothingly. "I'll tell Ariadne I need you to review some security details with me."

"Thank you," Arthur says, sagging against the wall in relief.

"Open up, Suits." Flowers starts pounding against the door. "I gotta drop some kids off at the pool. They're high schoolers, if you know what I mean."

He closes his eyes and sighs.

* * * * * * 

"You guys don't have a TV, huh?" Arthur says as he tries to get comfortable on the profoundly uncomfortable stool he's sitting on.

Mal stares back at him from the couch. The weight of her gaze is heavy and vaguely disapproving. "It rots the brain."

"Ah," he replies. A minute passes in silence. "So what do you usually do to pass the time?"

"Have a lot of sex," she says flatly. "We're trying to get pregnant, you know."

"I… didn't know." Arthur adjusts his collar and tries to determine if she's joking. Doesn't seem like it. "Sorry if I'm keeping you from. That."

"I shouldn't be ovulating this week, which is why I agreed to this." 

"Thanks," Arthur says, after a beat. "I guess." 

They both look up when Cobb enters the bus. "Hey, honey," he says as he leans down to give Mal a kiss. "Hey, Arthur. Hope I didn't miss out on too much fun while I was off talking shop with Eames."

"So much fun," Arthur says weakly. "I think we're gonna be the party bus."

"Hell yeah we are." Cobb grins as he slings an arm around Mal. "The fearsome threesome bus!"

Arthur lifts his eyes and prays that the discolored stain he sees is water damage due to deep structural problems with the bus ceiling and not, in fact, dried jizz.

* * * * * * 

"I hear Mal's been tormenting you for the last two days," Eames says as he opens the door and takes Arthur's suitcase.

"Tormenting is a very strong word," Arthur says as he follows Eames onto the bus, girding himself for the worst: dirty underwear hanging on the lamps, a dead possum on the counter—anything. But all he finds is Eames' bus as it usually is: mostly tidy, notebooks filled with musical notations strewn about, an open guitar case in the corner, and a keyboard on the table.

"She's used to getting away with murder," Eames says. "Side effect of being a stunning woman with an accent, I suppose. Sometimes you must set a line in the sand or she'll keep pushing."

"She's married to the guy that can fire me," Arthur replies. "There is no line. I'm not sure there's even sand."

Eames chuckles. "Fair enough. Regardless, I am happy to have you. My locomotive home is your locomotive home, so do feel free to move about and make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it," Arthur says. "I promise I'll try to keep out of your hair as much as possible." 

"Arthur, please. I adore your company, so hiding yourself away will not be necessary, I assure you." Eames gestures towards the back. "I don't know when you usually head off to bed, but I put down freshly laundered sheets and pillowcases for you to use and—"

"What? I'm not taking your bed."

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter." Eames points at a folded blanket and eye-mask on the couch. "I've already staked my claim."

"Eames," Arthur says.

"Arthur."

"I'm not sleeping in your bed," Arthur says flatly. "If you take the couch, then I've got no choice but to take the floor."

"Fine." Eames doesn't bat an eyelash. "So long as you understand that the couch is mine, I've no quarrel with anywhere else you may wish to lie down."

"Then we're in agreement." 

Arthur unzips his suitcase and pulls out his pajamas and toiletry case, heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth and change. When he comes back out, Eames is lying on the couch under the blanket, the eye-mask on.

Arthur takes the travel blanket out of his suitcase and unrolls it, already preparing himself for the sore back he's going to have tomorrow. At least there's plush carpeting, he thinks as he takes a couple of old sweaters out and arranges them into a rough pillow shape at the end of the blanket. He turns off all the lights and lies down, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.

Five minutes pass before Eames yanks off his eye-mask and flips on a light. "You're actually going to sleep on the floor, aren’t you?"

"Already on my way," Arthur replies, cracking open one eye.

"You are ten kinds of absurd." Eames sounds almost fond as he swings his legs off the couch and stands over Arthur, holding a hand out. After a moment, Arthur takes it and gets up. "I'll sleep in the bed while you sleep on the couch, you stubborn bastard."

"See how easy that was?" Arthur grins while Eames walks into the bedroom, laughing.

Arthur settles onto the couch, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. That's when he realizes—with a sinking feeling in his gut and a rising feeling somewhat lower than his gut—that the blanket, couch, and pillow all smell tantalizingly musky and male. With every breath Arthur takes, the scent of Eames fill his lungs, so strong Arthur can almost taste him in his mouth.

Arthur lifts the edge of the blanket to peer underneath. "Well, shit."

* * * * * * 

As it turns out, Arthur and Eames function on the bus more or less the same way they function anywhere else: amicably, and with the occasional good-natured disagreement.

Eames mostly occupies his time with writing music, singing quietly as he strums the guitar and jots down notes. He's not bothered by Arthur moving around or even watching TV as he does this (some of Arthur's previous clients had thrown fits over people breathing too loudly while they were in the throes of artistic creation). Sometimes he'll join Arthur on the couch and say nothing except for the occasional comment on how wonderfully astute Sonya's critiques are.

He also makes a very appreciative audience for Arthur's cooking experiments, willing to try almost anything and always good about offering feedback. Yusuf and Ariadne are happy to eat anything Arthur makes, of course, but it is nice to be able to discuss food with someone whose culinary vocabulary includes more sophisticated phrasing than, "Yummy!" and "I love candy and salt!"

Arthur thought he would get tired of being around Eames at the end of the second day together, but aside from the fact that whatever song Eames is working on quickly becomes an earworm, he finds himself with no real complaints.

* * * * * * 

Arthur is dreaming. He knows this because he's sitting on a bed wearing a stain-free version of the Armani suit that had been ruined on the day he met Eames, and there's a large staircase in front of him. Further proof accumulates when everything goes dark except for a spotlight shining on the top of the stairs, where Eames appears in a gray tuxedo, white gloves, and blazing crimson scarf.

"Let me," Eames murmurs, low and throaty. He takes a step down the staircase, plucking each finger of his left glove, deftly pulling it off and dropping it to the floor. "Entertain you."

Arthur sits as if paralyzed, gaping up at Eames as music begins to swell and he takes another step down. "Let me," Eames is hardly moving his lips, not singing yet, not really, but Arthur can hear every word like it's being whispered right into his ear, "make you smile."

Eames undoes the two buttons of his jacket, letting it swing free and open as he takes another step down. "Let me do a few tricks." He tugs at the bowtie, once, and it falls undone around his neck. "Some old and then some new tricks."

Eames' hands hover over his shirt buttons for a moment, almost waiting, and his gaze flicks up to meet Arthur's, to steal the breath from his lungs. "I'm very versatile."

Arthur can do nothing but stare as Eames undoes each button achingly slowly, inch by inch of that beautiful chest being revealed. Eames' hand stops right above his fly, hovering again, and Arthur wants to clamber forward, wants to rip it open with his teeth, but he can't. All he can do is watch Eames' lips form a half-smirk as he croons, "And if you're real good, I'll make you feel good."

Eames undoes his fly with one smooth motion, but doesn't move to do more. The wiry thatch of hair peeking out makes it obvious he's not wearing any underwear, and all Arthur can do is watch, wishing he could bury his face in it. Eames is only a few steps away, the long length of body from groin to neck revealed as his tuxedo hangs off him. "I'd want your spirits to climb."

He makes his way down onto the bed, planting one knee on either side of Arthur's thighs. He's close, so close, but not quite touching Arthur as he straddles his lap. "So let me entertain you," Eames sings, the soft material of his scarf caressing Arthur's cheek. "We'll have a real good time." 

Arthur stares glassily as Eames reaches down to trace Arthur's mouth with a still-gloved thumb. "Yes sir," Eames whispers, as if for Arthur. "We'll have…"

Arthur strains upwards as Eames bends down. "A real good…" The words brush against Arthur's lips as they close the distance. "Time."

Arthur jolts awake to the familiar sounds of the tour bus all around him, the supple give of the leather couch underneath him, and the unmistakable feeling of wetness between his legs. He lifts the blanket to confirm that yes, he did indeed do something he hasn't done in at least ten years, and glances towards the closed door leading to Eames' bedroom. There aren't any sounds coming from that area, so Eames is probably still asleep. Thankfully.

After another thirty seconds to confirm (and to cool down), Arthur swings his legs off the couch and hurries, blanket and all, into the bathroom.

* * * * * * 

"Guess who's on the boob tube," Arthur says, gesturing with the remote to Eames is being interviewed onscreen by some TV personality. On the television, Eames is wearing a jacket that's a beautifully fitted combination of two different patterns: on one side is a plain tan shoulder and sleeve, while the other shoulder is a dark tartan that wraps around his chest in a swooping diagonal. It's both chic and unusual, filled with Eames' usual flair but dialed down to something that makes him look almost statesman-like. "That's an awesome jacket."

"Thank you," Eames replies, sounding pleased. He joins Arthur on the couch and passes him a freshly-made BLT with mustard and mayo, the way Arthur likes it. "Yes, it is one of my favorites. Pity I can't wear it more often—being caught repeating anything too often is an irredeemable faux pas."

"Some people have criticized you for focusing too much on your clothing choices and too little on your music," the interviewer says. "What is your response to that?"

"Fashion at its best can be about joy, about emotion. It's as much a part of my art as the singing and the dancing because it's another expression of my ideas," Eames replies onscreen. 

"But do you ever worry that what you wear will cause people to take your music less seriously?" 

"Music is a profoundly personal experience, and everyone is entitled to like or dislike anything they listen to for whatever reasons," Eames says onscreen. "In the end, all I can say to critics who accuse me of not caring about what I put out is that I play five instruments, write my own songs, and coproduce nearly everything I record."

The screen cuts to throngs of screaming fans on the street, many waving signs and wearing painted T-shirts. Arthur mutes the TV and gently nudges Eames, who is eating his turkey on wheat sandwich with no mayo. "Hey. Some famous guy I saw on TV just made me a really great sandwich."

"A man renowned for his sandwich-making skills is one I could stand behind," Eames says, nudging Arthur back.

Arthur looks at the TV, at the hyperventilating fans they're leading onstage to meet Eames, at the way they tear up and gaze at him with overwhelmed awe. 

"I never thought it would be like this," Eames—the one beside him—says quietly. "I had rock star fantasies, of course—what performer doesn't? But I never thought through what it'd be like if those fantasies came true, and certainly never considered the things I'd be forced to give up in order to make them come true."

"Mal said it didn't start like this," Arthur says, glancing over. "But it's hard for me to imagine, seeing everything now."

"For the longest time, there were no fans. Not even a bus—only me and her, the first person who ever believed in my talent," Eames says. "Interviewers are always talking about my overnight success, but I started off in pubs filled with patrons who'd actively boo me offstage. The only reason I received my first record deal was because Mal convinced them that underneath the lack of showmanship there was a glimmer of talent. They eventually dropped me because I was, objectively speaking, still terrible, glimmer or not. The second label I signed with went bankrupt, the third one split into two and _then_ went bankrupt, and it was only four short years ago that Pasiv Records finally deigned to take my calls. Before them, none of my labels could even afford to distribute my music internationally. The only exception was Japan, which received bootlegs of my earliest performances through a means none of us could ever pin down." Eames shakes his head. "The first tour I did that could be considered a success by any measure was in Japan."

"Is it everything you hoped it would be?" Arthur asks, taking a bite of his BLT (crisp, juicy, tangy). "Now that you’ve made it?"

"Being able to sing every night and be paid for it is better than I could have imagined. And having the opportunity to work with virtually every musician I admire isn't something I gave much thought to when starting out, but has grown to be something I deeply appreciate. As for fame itself—the twenty-year-old me would howl at hearing this—but it lost its sparkle fairly early on. I miss being able to step outside without a circus, and I loathe the events for which I receive an invitation due to being a 'star.'" Eames pauses. "I do enjoy the free clothing and shoes, though."

Arthur finishes the BLT and brushes the crumbs from his fingertips. "What about the fans? Having all of them fall in love with you?"

"They don't love me," Eames says with a small, sad smile. "They love an idea. The music they hear, the interviews I give—it forms a blank canvas, a space for them to project whatever they wish. They fill in the blanks with their own notions, and rarely does the end result have anything to do with who I actually am. Don't get me wrong—I adore my fans, even when they're mad as hatters. But they know my music, not me."

"Well, I don't know anything about music, but I think you're pretty great." Arthur tips his head back and lets himself slouch into the sofa, sated and a little sleepy. "It's mostly the sandwich-making that got me, though."

"How could millions of fans compare to that?" Eames smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans over Arthur. Eames reaches out, and for a moment Arthur thinks he's going to do something, say something neither of them will be able to turn back from. 

But Eames curls his fingers away from Arthur's cheek and takes his empty plate instead. "Best clean up before ants arrive," Eames says lightly as he walks to the sink.

Arthur looks back at the TV and un-mutes it. The onscreen Eames smiles at the interviewer and says, "I am thankful every day of my life for the chance I've been given to do what I love. Have the sacrifices been worth it? Absolutely."

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/ByCux.png)


	6. The Entree

> Once you have determined your story and your menu, observe carefully how your guests react to each course. Solicit feedback if none is offered, and suppress the need to defend your choices. There is food we prepare for ourselves on a Sunday night off, and then there is food we prepare for consumption by others. Bear in mind who matters most in each scenario.  
>  - _The Land and Food We Live On_ , by Sonya Roy

**Washington DC**

"Did you miss me?" Yusuf asks.

"Like a persistent, recurring rash," Arthur says as he hauls his suitcase up the steps and onto the bus. "Speaking of which, you'd better have cleaned up and decontaminated everything. I've had enough of dealing with suspicious stains."

"It's not been thirty seconds and you're already complaining," Yusuf says. "I'd have thought you'd be thrilled to return home. Unless you grew fond of Ariadne's traveling landfill while you were away."

Arthur sighs and then scrubs his face. "Sorry, it's been kind of a weird week. It is good to be back."

"I hear you were staying with Eames for the last four days," Yusuf says, tone far too casual. "How did that go?"

"Fine," Arthur replies, conscious of Yusuf's eyes on him. "His sofa is much more comfortable than the bunks on any of the buses, by the way. We should lodge complaints."

"More comfortable than that helipad he calls a bed?"

"Wouldn't know," Arthur says, leaning down to brush the dust off bobblehead-Sonya. 

"I see." There's a pause, and when Arthur looks up, Yusuf is still watching him. "Well, you will let me know if that changes, won't you? Scientific curiosity and all that."

"I'm afraid experiments aren't really for me, Yusuf," Arthur says quietly. "Not when I already know what results to expect."

* * * * *

"Are you ticklish?" Ariadne asks, hovering over Arthur's shoulder.

"No," he replies, not looking up from his laptop. Yusuf created an account for Arthur at the ihearteames.com forums weeks ago, and after a string of boring days and insomniac nights on the tour bus, Arthur is officially addicted. He mostly hangs out in the 'Anything Goes' forum, posting about everything from the best place to get muffaletta outside of New Orleans to whether 'Eamester' should have three e's or only two (three, obviously). "And if you attempt to find out if I'm lying, I should warn you that my military training may kick in. I don't think you want to find out what my reflexive reactions to unwanted touching are."

For a second, she's quiet—relatively speaking. There's still the abnormally loud sound of her slurping away at the remains of an iced coffee. Then she says, "So whatcha doing?"

"Clarifying some misconceptions people have about the classification of banana plants as trees." 

"Oh my god," Ariadne says, slurping on her iced coffee right in his ears. "Are you using the internet of your own free will?"

"I'm engaging in very important conversations," Arthur says. "Shouldn't you be off scouring the Youtuber for videos illegally using Eames' music?"

"But that is so boring, and annoying you is so fun. Also, it's just 'Youtube' with no 'r'. We've talked about this."

"Uh huh," Arthur says, not really paying attention.

Ariadne leans in closer to squint at the screen, her enormous iced coffee cup partially blocking Arthur's view. "Ooh, 'modern parthenocarpic plant'—what fancy five-dollar words you have."

"I like to be precise in my terminology." Arthur continues to keep his eyes on the screen, hoping she'll take the hint.

"I feel compelled to make a penis joke, but nothing's coming to mind. So you can go ahead and think of one on your own and then laugh uproariously at my cleverness."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how jokes work."

"Whatever. I'm not going by the word of a guy who doesn't like music and probably doesn't have a soul," Ariadne says, sounding decidedly sulky. "I've been told that I am hilarious. Unrivaled in hilarity, in fact."

"Is this by people you eventually ended up sleeping with?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. How'd you—" She halts. "Oh. I see what you did there."

"We all have flaws," Arthur says consolingly. "Not everyone can be well-dressed, devastatingly handsome, and a comic genius."

"Yeah, Eames is pretty one of a kind," she says, and laughs when Arthur slants a narrow-eyed glare at her. "Oh come on, that was pretty funny."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means," he declares loftily, turning back to his laptop with an air of finality. About fifteen seconds pass and he assumes Ariadne's finally lost interest when something shockingly cold and wet makes its way down his collar. He yelps and thrusts his chest out, contorting in an effort to get the ice away from his skin as it slides down his back. "What the fu—"

"Now that—" Ariadne calls as she darts out of the room with the last of her iced coffee, "that's funny!"

* * * * *

It's strange to be at an event where somebody else's security force is taking care of most of the work, but Arthur can't say that he really minds. They're in the garden of some Senator's sprawling Virginia estate, Eames having been hired to sing _Ave Maria_ and _If the Sky Fell_ for the Senator's birthday party (she and her daughter are apparently huge fans). Eames doesn't usually do private events, but according to Cobb, the rate they'd offered was astronomical. And it never hurt to be in the good graces of a powerful American political dynasty.

Arthur's been relegated to sipping cherry coke, watching the circle of pearl-laden young ladies bat their eyelashes at Eames and coo. Eames is in a conservative—well, for him—seersucker suit with a mustard yellow bowtie, managing to play up the debonair Englishman bit while clad in head-to-toe pastel. Across the low-cut topiary maze, more than a few dour men in polos and loafers observe in envy. Further behind them, the Senator's private security detail wait in dark suits, clichéd sunglasses, and stony silence.

"Nice day to watch a bunch of married women and their daughters throw themselves at Eames," Arthur says lowly to Casper.

Casper snickers, then ceases. "Hey, stop being funny. I'm disgruntled."

"What? Why?"

"I heard you were bouncing around tour buses all last week," Casper says. "Wound up staying with Eames at the end of it."

"Oh." Casper hadn't seemed the type to be interested in gossip, but Arthur supposes on an intense, three month tour with the same people, it's hard not to get curious after a while. He'd assumed that the rumors circulating about him and Eames would quiet down in a few days, but that was probably a vain hope. Especially since at the end of yesterday's concert, half of Eames' backup dancers had hooted at Arthur backstage, catcalling variations of, "Get it, Jailbait!"

"Listen, about me and—"

"Flowers told me Ariadne was the first person you asked. Ariadne!" Arthur looks over at Casper, who appears to be genuinely upset. "Then you go to the Cobbs, and finally the Boss-man without even saying a peep to me. Do you know how that makes me feel?"

Arthur blinks. "I had no idea. I didn't mean to—"

"You hurt me right here, Babyface." Casper points at the dapper lavender pocket square folded over his chest. "Right here."

"I'm sorry," Arthur starts as Casper walks away. "Casper, wait—"

"Still pissed you didn't ask to crash on his bus, huh?" Flowers says as she wanders up to Arthur holding a plate of petit fours in her hand. She has a large Gerber daisy tucked behind her ear.

"He already shares a bus with four other people," Arthur says helplessly. "I didn't think throwing in another one would be that fun."

"He'll get over it," she replies. "Email him a video of baby animals running on a treadmill to the Rocky theme song or something. The key to his heart is dog macros and lolcats."

"Right," Arthur says, as he watches Eames whip off his jacket and roll up his sleeve, triggering more than a few heaving bosoms as his koi fish tattoo comes into view. "I think I might have an idea."

* * * * *

FROM: casper.the.notsofriendly@eamesmail.com  
TO: a.bodyguard.is.born@eamesmail.com  
SUBJECT: Re: video I think you'll want to see (it's not porn)

Your forgiven. 

PS – whats in this drink? I don’t taste radishes only peppermint so I think the commercial and the bottle are false advertising.  
PPS – Ariadne tells me to tell you that the first shipment has arrived and we'll be ready.  
PPPS - She also says to imagine her laughing maniacally at the top of a lair with lightning behind her.  
PPPPS – She's laughing right now and it scares me.

* * * * *

"If only I was a wizard," Arthur mumbles as he flips to the next page in the newspaper. "If only I was a bird—"

The bathroom door flies open and Mal steps out imperiously, as if there isn't the unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing behind her. "What was that?"

"How did you—" Arthur frowns at the bathroom, and then the entrance to the suite. "Have you been in there since before I got here?"

"Those dreadful noises you were making before," she says, advancing. "You were singing to yourself."

"What? No," he scoffs automatically. "That's not—I wasn't…" He trails off, blood growing cold with slowly dawning horror. "Oh my god."

"Ha!" she crows, jabbing a finger at him. "I finally caught you!"

"What is going on, and why is it so loud?" Eames asks plaintively as he comes out of the bedroom in his pajamas, hair in total disarray. He squints at Arthur, and then Mal with the one eye that's actually open. "Mal? When did you get here?"

"Your bodyguard has something to tell you," she replies, chin jutting up in the air. "Arthur?"

"Your music is _drilling a hole in my mind_." Arthur claps his palms over his ears. "It's like a larval tapeworm burrowing in to create an impenetrable cyst of catchy Top 10 beats."

"Why, Arthur," Eames says after a moment, "that may be the sweetest thing you have ever said to me."

"Oh god," Arthur moans, wondering when this had all started, how it could have snuck up on him like this. "What's happening to me?"

"You've been kidnapped and replaced by an alien species hell-bent on the destruction of Earth," Eames suggests. "You're preparing to enter a cocoon from which you will metamorphose into your final adult form. Or you do, in fact, have a brain parasite and urgently require medical care."

" _Wizards and Wings_." Mal shakes her head disapprovingly while Arthur sits, filled with dread as he begins to doubt the truth of everything he ever thought about himself. "Of all the songs, that was the one you chose."

* * * * *

**Boston**

"Hey, Yusuf," Arthur says. "You up for a wine tasting? There's a wine bar Sonya liked not too far from here and I have tomorrow night off."

"Wish I could, but I'm video-chatting with Pratchi tomorrow. Have to work out all the details of my homecoming." Yusuf lifts a beaker up and sniffs it delicately.

"Can't believe we only have a week left of actual touring," Arthur says as he takes a seat at the counter. "Are you going to be staying in New York for the wrap party?"

"I am, but I'll be flying out the next afternoon." Yusuf goes to the refrigerator and takes out the ice tray, dropping a cube into the beaker. "It's strange to imagine going back to living in my flat, returning to a Monday through Friday job. Feels almost like another life."

"You're not going to jump on another tour?" Arthur reaches over to open a cabinet and set out two mugs. "Become Head Roadie for some other guy who sings and dances in a glow-in-the-dark loincloth?"

"It's tempting, but I can't put off my research forever." Yusuf pours the contents of the beaker into the mugs. "And Pratchi seems to have finally grown attached to me in my absence. Took a few years, but I suppose it was bound to happen."

"Imagine that." Arthur smiles as he takes a sip of his coffee and savors it, the bold and comfortingly familiar flavor. "I'm gonna miss this mad scientist coffee."

The corners of Yusuf's mouth quirk up. "I bet you say that all your mad scientist bus-mates."

"Sure," Arthur agrees. "But this time I mean it."

* * * * *

"You're a no-good whippersnapper, is what you are," Arthur says as he pulls Ariadne in for a noogie.

"Oh my god, Arthur, stop! Stop, you can't go around noogie-ing people like—" She wriggles wildly in his grasp but can't quite escape. 

"Like you can't go around throwing ice cubes down the front of people's pants?" Arthur holds onto her for dear life. "You mean I shouldn't do things like that?"

"That was a fun, lighthearted prank to show how much I respect you, even when you appear to have peed yourself—"

Cobb looks up from his Blackberry, eyebrow raised. "Do I need to separate you two?"

"Yes." She successfully wrangles herself free and Arthur lets her go, laughing. "Put him in the cone of shame."

"Arthur," Cobb says, addressing him with the utmost seriousness except for the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, "Ariadne doesn't like it when you noogie her."

"And I don't like it when people ruin my clothing with pranks," he replies, keeping an eye on her as she scurries to the other side of the room. "I grew up with two sisters. I know if I don't take action now, it's only going to escalate."

"Ariadne, is that true?"

"He's being dramatic," she replies. "A little water never hurt anyone except for the Wicked Witch of the West, which—"

"Don't even go there," Arthur says warningly. "Also, this was ice stained with the convenience store perversion you call coffee."

"How are you this cantankerous and snobbish already?" she wonders aloud. "Did you emerge from the womb complaining about kids and their loud music? Are you actually Benjamin Button?"

"Now now," Eames says as he breezes into the green room to pick at the salad spread, "mustn't be so disrespectful towards your elders, Ariadne."

"You're just saying that because Arthur's never going to give you a surprise noogie," she replies.

"Oh, I'm sure Arthur would only give me a noogie if I asked very nicely for it," Eames says, winking.

"Ugh, you two," she says. "Clear the air and do it already!"

Eames turns a startling shade of pink while Arthur clears his throat and hurries away, muttering something about checking security again.

* * * * *

Arthur's shift starts at noon, but he arrives at the studio a bit early—as always—and catches the tail end of a duet Eames and Mal are performing together at the piano. They're sitting side by side, Mal's fingers dancing over the keys as they sing in perfect harmony, years of partnership bleeding through the gentle sway of their bodies, the easy way neither voice overwhelms the other. Arthur hangs back, waiting unobtrusively for them to finish.

"You are superb," Eames says in the quiet that follows the ending note on the piano. There's a great tenderness in his voice, and in the way he presses a kiss to her cheek. "I don't think I tell you that enough."

"Likely not," she replies, head coming to rest on his shoulder. "Do you remember the first time we sang together?"

"I do." He chuckles softly. "What a disaster."

"And here we are now." Mal lets out a gentle sigh. "How did we get to be so old?"

"I don't know. I still remember being starved for fame and glory," he says. "Do you remember how hungry we were?"

"How can I forget when everyone around us looks at you like a juicy steak waiting to be devoured?" she replies. "But in me, I no longer see it. I look at photos from the past and I don't recognize myself. I look in the mirror, and I don't recognize that either." 

"The other day I found my first gray pubic hair," Eames says. "I didn't know what to do. My first thought was to pluck, which turned out to be a horrible idea."

Mal laughs. "What will you do if they all turn gray?"

"Shave the whole lot of them off," he replies. "At least it'll make my prick look bigger."

"Or you could wax. Don’t give me that look—I know you hate it, but it can be very convenient." She pauses. "Eames, can I tell you something?"

"Anything, my dove," Eames says. "Anything."

"I think I might be pregnant. It's too early to tell for certain but I feel—this might be it."

"Motherhood," he whispers, after a moment. "Good lord, you will be a terror."

She snorts. "And you're going to be a doting uncle, spoiling my child with beautiful, useless things."

"It's the least I could do for the woman to whom I owe everything good in my life."

"You deserve at least one percent of the credit," Mal says, sitting up to brush some hair from his eyes. "Perhaps two percent."

Eames kisses her on the cheek once more before standing. "You will be a wonderful parent. You've already taught me so much."

"Such sappy nonsense," she says, but her voice is suspiciously raspy. "Now run along to the bathroom before your Arthur gets here. I know how long it takes you to freshen up. Wouldn't want to keep him waiting."

* * * * *

This is not a good idea, Arthur thinks as he finishes off his sixth very full glass of red wine. There are supposed to be only two more wines left to taste, but the sommelier keeps coming over and refilling the glass with the vintages that Arthur likes. He should be making more use of the spit cup, but it's his first night off in ages and he's never much cared for expectoration.

By the end of the wine flight, Arthur is well and truly loaded, both with alcohol and the number of the sommelier who'd smiled at him all evening. She's cute, Arthur thinks as he staggers into a taxi and tells the cabbie the hotel address. Perhaps she won't mind if he passes her number onto Ariadne or Eames instead. They have a far greater appreciation for attractive ladies than Arthur does.

The drunkenness really hits him once he steps out of the cab and finds himself weaving unsteadily across the hotel lobby. Thankfully, it's pretty late, so there aren't too many people around to witness him like this. As he leans against the elevator wall, he decides he's going to go straight to bed to sleep it off.

Everything's going smoothly until he reaches the door to his room, which stubbornly refuses to unlock no matter how many times he swipes with his keycard. "Goddamnit," Arthur mutters as the light flashes red instead of green for the fifth—or is it fifteenth?—time. He's about to give up and go get a new keycard from the receptionist when the door unexpectedly opens.

"Arthur?" 

"Eames?" Arthur squints. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Arthur," Eames says gently. "This isn’t your room. You're a floor down, remember?"

"That doesn't make sense." Arthur shakes his head and feels a little woozy. "My keycard says right here…"

"I'm fairly certain this is a Jamba Juice coupon, not your room key," Eames says as he takes the card and examines it. 

"I—that's—what?" Arthur leans forward to take a look and ends up tipping further than he expected, narrowly avoiding slamming his face into Eames' shoulder. 

"My goodness, you are pissed, aren't you?" Eames says, sounding amused as he puts an arm out to steady Arthur. "I don't believe I've ever seen you like this."

"I'm not mad." Arthur feels strongly that he should clarify so Eames doesn't get the wrong idea. "I'm—I'm very glad. Because I went to a fantastic tasting, and there was wine, a lot of wine, and this pretty girl I think you might like—"

"Was this pretty girl, by any chance, the one serving you your wine?"

"As as a matter of fact she was," Arthur says. "She was very generous, Eames, very generous, which is why I think you might like her. You two would get along great, I'm sure, because you're my two favorite people right now, this girl whose name is—who wrote it down for me—"

"As fond as I am of pretty girls, I think the search for her name can be postponed." Eames folds his hands over Arthur's as he fumbles with his wallet. "Perhaps after you've had a glass of water and a sit."

"I know you think," Arthur says as he follows Eames in, trying to walk in as straight a line as possible, "that I shouldn't be this drunk unless I'm a lightweight. But see, the thing is, I'm very oral. I'm a very oral person and I don't—I love the smell of wine, the feel of it in my mouth and to spit it out is so—I don't like it. I don't like spitting. So I swallow, even though I should be using the cup."

"Oh my dear," Eames murmurs when Arthur stumbles a little. "You're—yes, you should have a seat right there."

Arthur sprawls back on the sofa and wriggles around, trying to get comfortable while Eames disappears into another room. By the time he returns, Arthur has unbuttoned his collar and shucked off both shoes and socks.

"For you," Eames says as he holds out a glass of water. His gaze travels down the length of Arthur's body to linger on his bare feet.

Arthur takes it and drinks deeply, savoring the clean, crisp taste of it, the sensation of cool liquid going down his overheated throat. "This is tasty," he says while Eames refills his glass. "It's the fancy bottled stuff the hotel gives you, right? No tap will ever cross this celebrity's lips."

"Perhaps you shouldn't—"

"Oops." Arthur looks down at where half his glass has spilled down the front of his shirt. It soaks through immediately, and his skin twitches in response to the cold and wet. "This is dry-clean only."

"Arthur, what are you—"

Arthur withdraws his arms from his shirtsleeves—carefully, so as not to pull the fabric—and tries to drape it over the arm of the sofa. It sort of works.

"I should—" Eames clears his throat. "I'll fetch you a towel."

Arthur tries to dry his skin by rubbing at it with his palm, but since his hand is rather chilly and damp as well, it doesn't do much besides make his nipples harden. While he's looking down, though, he notices that the muscle definition in his upper body is pretty good. He's not in prime fighting condition anymore, of course, but it's nice to know that all those hours spent figuring out the different equipment at each hotel gym weren't a monumental waste.

Arthur hears the word 'towel' before fluffy terrycloth is dropped on top of his chest, catching on his face as well. There's an undignified moment of flailing before he gets it draped across his chest and in the correct position for drying himself off.

"I can lend you a shirt once you're dry," Eames says. He's got one leg crossed over his knee, body angled away as he keeps his eyes focused on the wall behind Arthur. Arthur glances over his shoulder to see if there's a painting or something cool there, but it just looks like blank wall. "Once you're done with your water, of course. Wouldn't do to lend you another shirt only for you to end up sopping wet again. It would be quite counterproductive, yes."

"I'm dry now," Arthur declares as he arranges the towel on the sofa arm as well, pushing his shirt to one side to make room. "Do you have more water?"

"Oh. Yes, of course." Eames leans forward to pass Arthur the glass. It's slightly awkward because he doesn't uncross his legs. "Perhaps in a few minutes I can walk you down to your room. Or I can ring Flowers to escort you."

"I like your sofa," Arthur says as he leans back into the microsuede fabric. "Your sofas are always better than my bunks. And some of my beds. They're always so small and stiff, but this is something you can stretch out and sink into."

"Yes, it seems very lovely," Eames says, sounding almost prim.

Arthur props his head up on a throw pillow and studies Eames for a moment. He's wearing the outfit he'd been wearing earlier today, a tight burgundy T-shirt that lets the bottom half of his tattoos peek out under the sleeves, gray jeans, and a complicated belt buckle at his waist. It's a Celtic knot design, Arthur thinks after a minute, and then he realizes it probably looks like he's been staring at Eames' crotch for that entire time. Which, come to think of it—

"How are you feeling?" Eames asks, and Arthur's gaze snaps back up to his mouth. That mouth, the one Arthur is always so careful never to fixate on, never to think about for too long. It's hard to remember why he's always so careful, because Eames' mouth is a thing of beauty, lush and welcoming. 

Eames, Arthur thinks, would taste like something full-bodied and tinged with oak, with notes of pineapple and melon and all the fresh fruit he's constantly eating. Eames would taste like a wine that's been hidden in a shipwreck at the bottom of the sea, aged to perfection before being rediscovered and uncorked at long last. 

"Eames," Arthur says as he gets up off the couch and makes his way over to stand in front of Eames, mostly steady. He leans forward and touches Eames' cheek when he doesn't pull away. "You're not who I expected you to be."

Eames stares up at him, wide-eyed and completely still. "Who did you expect?"

"Someone I'd be happy to get away from at the end of the day." Arthur slides his thumb down the line of Eames' jaw to his chin, pausing at the divot underneath his lower lip. "But I was wrong. And maybe—maybe we could—"

"Arthur." Eames surges up, hands coming to rest, warm and solid, on Arthur's waist. He's inches away and he smells so good Arthur feels heady from it, a fresh wave of intoxication breaking over him. "Maybe we could what?"

"Maybe it doesn't have to be a big deal," Arthur whispers. "We're both adults. It doesn't have to be—complicated."

Eames' face is blank, unreadable. "You're proposing something casual?"

"I'm proposing that we figure this all out tomorrow." Arthur smiles. But it slips a little when Eames doesn't smile back.

"And what if you don't remember this tomorrow?" Eames' grip on Arthur's waist tightens for a moment, then releases. "What if you do, and it's only as a mistake?"

"I don't think this is a mistake," Arthur says. "Do you?"

"I think—" Eames takes a deep breath before stepping back, looking away. "I'll ring Flowers. She can bring you back to your room."

"Eames," Arthur says, watching him run a hand through his hair before turning on his heel and walking away.

* * * * *

Arthur wakes up with what feels like the entire percussion section of an orchestra playing in his head, and a throat so dry it's painful. After wiping away the crust shellacking his eyelids together, he sees a saucer with aspirin next to a glass of water on the nightstand.

After chugging the tablets and water, Arthur leans back against his pillow and stares vacantly at the ceiling. There's a knock on the door and then Flowers' voice, "You decent?"

"Always," Arthur croaks, full of misery.

"Hey, Suits," Flowers says as he opens the door. "How you feeling?"

"Like someone masticated, digested, and then shat me out." Arthur drags himself into a sitting position and prays he doesn't vomit all over himself. It's a close thing.

"Graphic."

"Accurate." Arthur rubs his forehead. "I fucked up last night, Flowers. Even with the alcohol I did things I shouldn't have."

"I figured as much." She gets him a fresh glass of water and watches him drink it. "Do you remember everything that happened?"

"Unfortunately. Or fortunately, I'm not really sure." He shakes his head and immediately regrets it. "One minute my room key's not working, the next I'm shirtless on Eames' sofa."

"What'd you do?"

"Took off half my clothes and threw myself at him." Arthur bites his lip and looks over at her. "Did he seem—okay?"

Flowers sits down on the edge of the bed. "You know how Eames is—the more emotions, the further he retreats into jokes or drinking. He wasn't drunk, but he was pretty close to knock-knock jokes."

"Shit," Arthur says quietly. "I need to resign, don't I?"

"I think you should talk to Cobb, then talk to Eames. See what they have to say."

"What else could they have to say besides, 'you're a dipshit and you're fired?'" Arthur asks. "I'm supposed to be looking out for Eames, not be that crazy person he has to get escorted from his room."

"Look, Arthur," Flowers leans forward. "I don't know what's going on with you and Eames, and from the sound of it, neither do you. Things got out of hand and unfortunately in this business, that happens more often than it should. But with all the physical proximity, the time we spend with clients, the vulnerable situations we see them in—it's the nature of the beast. Which is why _we_ , not the client, need to learn how to handle it if we want to keep moving forward in our careers."

"Yeah," Arthur says quietly. "Yeah, you're right."

"You're a hard worker, you're smart, and this is your first big screw-up with Eames," Flowers says. "A few years back, when I first started working with Eames, I was assigned to go over his home security. He was just starting to explode internationally, so security was understaffed, my schedule was all over the place, and my personal life was—well, things were suffering because I was hardly around. You know how that song and dance goes. So I rushed a few things, cut a few corners, and hurried home early one afternoon so my wife wouldn't leave me." She pauses. "Later that night, I got a call that Eames' house had been broken into by someone who'd been stalking him for six months."

Arthur sits up. "Is this the guy—"

"Yeah, that's the one. Eames wasn't hurt and they locked him up. But it was still my fuckup, so I resigned immediately." She shakes her head. "But Eames refused to accept my resignation. He said, 'mistakes are how we learn, and now we both know you'll never make this particular mistake again.' I thought I was done for, but instead he gave me another chance. Since then—no more mistakes. Not like that one."

Arthur studies her face. "So he was right."

"He's been doing this a long time. And even if he sometimes acts like he hasn't got a care in the world, I think he's one of the smartest guys I've ever met," Flowers says. "You know the reason why he takes on independent contractors like us instead of always going with the fancy security firms? It's because he wants people he can get to know, people he feels like he can trust. Ever since he got famous, he's had all kinds of people sell him out—gossip, photos, even going through his trash and selling it on Ebay. Everyone wants a piece of him and he pretends like it doesn't get to him, but it does."

"Yeah." In his mind's eye, Arthur can almost see the weariness Eames is so careful to hide after difficult interviews, grueling photo-shoots, dates that end in nothing but disappointment. People are always trying to extract whatever they can from Eames. "You think he'll still be able to trust me after last night?"

Flower takes Arthur's hand and squeezes it. "I dunno. Guess you'll have to take your lumps and find out."

* * * * *

"Hey," Arthur says when Cobb opens the door. "Do you guys have a minute?"

Behind Cobb, Eames is curled up on the couch with a laptop. "Arthur," Eames says, "please, do come in."

Cobb lets Arthur in and closes the door behind him before saying, "You know, the views here are pretty spectacular. I think I'm gonna go take a look."

Arthur watches him walk over to the windows on the far side of the room before taking a few cautious steps towards the couch. "Hello, Eames."

"Hullo." Eames shuts his laptop. "How are you?"

"I've been better." Arthur clasps his hands behind his back and pulls back his shoulders. "I came to apologize for my behavior last night. It was completely unprofessional, and there is no excuse. I should never have gotten so inebriated, nor should I have disturbed you in your room. I also shouldn't have said or done the things that I did, and I apologize. I hereby offer my resignation."

Eames sits still and quiet for a moment before he replies, "Thank you for your apology. Cobb and I are in agreement, however, that your resignation will not be necessary. Your service has been exemplary thus far, and we both have the utmost faith in your work."

Arthur nods jerkily. "Thank you."

"It has also been brought to my attention recently that my behavior has not been entirely—professional, either. And that this conduct may have contributed to some of the... misunderstandings that took place last night."

Arthur glances at Cobb, who is watching them both. "Perhaps there was a lack of professionalism on both our parts."

Eames offers Arthur a tentative smile. "Something for us to work on in the future, yes?"

"Yes." Arthur looks back at Cobb, who nods. "Thank you. I appreciate the opportunity."

* * * * *

**New York City**

Crisp, Arthur notes to himself, fresh, not terribly flavorful, but an overall pleasing taste and satisfying combination of textures: soft white bread with the crusts cut off, rich unsalted butter, and finely chopped watercress leaves. There's the slightest hint of lemon and cayenne to add a little something, but mostly the sandwich serves as a supporting player to the Darjeeling, which is aromatic and awash in flavors. He's never really been a big fan of British food, but a well-arranged service of scones, sandwiches, and tea—this, he can get behind.

"The perfect combination of bland, bitter and sweet," Eames says as he spreads Devonshire cream across a scone, "tastes like home."

"You ready to go back?" Arthur asks as he reaches for a cucumber sandwich. 

They've both been careful in the last few days, giving each other a wider berth, and speaking with more formality. Cobb has started appearing during Arthur's shifts with semi-legitimate reasons to talk to Eames, tagging along to do this or that. It's a little awkward, but it could be worse. Arthur could be unemployed.

But Cobb is running between Madison Square Garden and various television studios with Casper, Flowers has the day off, and Arthur is left to share afternoon tea at the Waldorf with Eames. It's the first time they've been alone together since Boston, and it's fine. Mostly.

"I suppose." Eames lifts his right shoulder, along with one elegant brass epaulette. He's wearing a jacket which could be considered relatively sedate were it not for the pair of intricately forged epaulettes mounted on his shoulders. The one on the right shoulder looks like a miniature set of a bear-trap jaws. "It's been so long since I was last home that I doubt I'll recognize it."

Eames has been in a mood all day, though it's mostly justified. He's been dashing between interviews and appearances and lawyers' offices all week (there's some kind of contract dispute with one of the venues he performed in a few weeks ago). To top it off, Constanza insists that Eames make appearances on at least a few late-night comedy shows while he's in New York and unfortunately, next to shock-jocks, late-night comedians are Eames' least favorite people to deal with. 

Arthur looks down at this plate, unsure of what to say. He eventually comes up with, "Yeah."

At least the smoked salmon is good, Arthur thinks, as he takes a bite and savors the way it practically melts in his mouth. They eat in silence for a few minutes before Eames says, "Tell me something, Arthur."

"Sure." Arthur dabs at his mouth with a napkin. "What's on your mind?"

"Do you ever wish you could go back in time?" Eames looks out the huge bay window to their right; the view is nothing less than spectacular, of course, but he doesn't seem to notice. 

"Every now and then." Arthur thinks about what things might have been like between them if they'd met a few years ago. He's seen interview footage of younger, brasher versions of Eames, still so desperate for the world to notice him. And Arthur had been different, too, early in his career: eager to prove himself, terrified of screwing up, and instantly dismissive of anyone who disagreed with him. They might have fucked, maybe, but more likely they'd have written each other off: Eames, as an attention-seeking wannabe, and Arthur as a self-righteous stick-in-the-mud. Neither would have bothered going past the surface, assuming that they'd already figured out all that was there. "What would you change?"

"I—" Eames meets Arthur's eyes for a moment, expression carefully neutral. Guarded. "I don't know."

* * * * *

"I'm here to see Eames," Arthur says.

Celestine Lee straightens up from behind her camera and blinks at him, eyes focusing after a long, somewhat awkward moment. "Who are you?"

"I'm Arthur, one of Eames' bodyguards. I'm here to check up on him." Arthur glances around at the brightly-lit studio. There are a million assistants, make-up artists, and costumers running around, with Eames in the center of it all, seated on what must be an Eames chair. Arthur wasn't supposed to be on duty, but Casper is out to dinner with his family, and Flowers has been strictly forbidden from coming within a ten foot radius of Eames on account of the sore throat she developed in the last few hours.

"Well, the shoot's not done, but I guess we could use a break. Fifteen minutes, everyone," Celestine calls out to the crew before turning back to Arthur. "He's over there. But keep in mind that if any of his makeup smears, it'll take an hour to clean it off and reapply."

While everyone in the studio disperses, Arthur makes his way over to where Eames is seated between a circle of lamps and a screen. As Arthur draws closer, he realizes that Eames isn't wearing anything besides some strategically placed plastic wrap. 

"Hey," Arthur says. It's not the first time he's seen the tattoo of music symbols trailing down the line of Eames' lower abdomen, but it's the first time he's seen quite so much of it. Arthur forces himself to concentrate on Eames' face, his kohl-smudged eyes.

"Arthur, what are you doing here?" Eames smiles, but his exhaustion is obvious. "I thought it was Flowers today."

"Got a little sore throat," Arthur says. "She says it was a potato chip that went down wrong, but we don't want to take any chances."

"Indeed," Eames says. "Here's hoping for the potato chip hypothesis."

Arthur smiles before he can stop himself. "How're you feeling?" 

"I'm naked, oiled up, and my genitalia is taped to the inside of my left thigh," Eames replies. "I'm doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances."

Arthur chuckles, then glances at the clock and frowns. "It's been twelve hours already. How much longer do they need?"

"You never know with these things," Eames says, shifting in his chair. "We could be here all night."

"Are you cold?" Arthur asks, eye irresistibly drawn by the movement to the miles of bare flesh. Eames had worked out with even greater diligence than usual in preparation for the photo-shoot, and the results are mouthwatering. "Do you want me to get you a robe?"

"Can't, otherwise I'll have to go into makeup again." Eames sighs slightly. "It's probably best that I sit here and try to move as little as possible."

"Did they at least feed you?" Arthur asks. "Are you thirsty?"

"Water would be much appreciated." Eames' tongue flicks out to wet his lips. "Though there is the problem of the goo they've smeared across my mouth. Maybe with a straw?"

Arthur goes to track down a bottle of water and a coffee stirrer for Eames, who gratefully sips out of the corner of his mouth.

"This is kind of ridiculous," Arthur says quietly.

"I've been in longer." Eames says, sounding resigned. "One of the occupational hazards of celebrity is the murderous hours spent being blinded by flashbulbs."

"I didn't think Celestine would be so literal about a shoot with only you and the chair," Arthur says, moving one of the lamps that's shining right into their eyes.

"'No more costumes and no more armor' is what she said," Eames says. "Nothing between me and the camera."

"You sure you don't want a towel, or my jacket?" Arthur asks. "I promise I won't tell makeup if you don't."

"Thank you, but no." Eames smiles up at him, and this time it's bright, genuine. "You don't have to stay. I've a long night ahead of me and Celestine has her own security."

Arthur imagines Eames sitting here for the rest of the night, being photographed at every angle while dozens of strangers swirl around him, like the still eye of a hurricane. He imagines being one of them, eager to rush past without saying a word.

"No, it's fine," Arthur says as he drags a stool over to sit with Eames. "I want to."

* * * * *

The last concert of a tour is always an emotional one. Arthur knows this to be true for musicians ranging from heavy metal rockers to Beatles impersonators. Even if a singer is tired of life on the road, or the band is on the verge of splintering into a million bitter pieces, there's something about the last show that wipes all that away. Unless someone literally ODs, even the most narcissistic performer will get their shit together long enough to go out with a bang.

Eames is no exception to this rule, though he easily outclasses every other entertainer Arthur's worked with in sheer performance skill. He is, as always, magnetic onstage, seeming as in-tune with the crowd as his own heartbeat. But it isn't until the very end of the show, when he's due to sing his final encore that he deviates from the script.

"New York, you are marvelous beyond words," he says, as the crowd cheers. "I couldn't have picked a better city to end my tour with. 

"New York, I want to tell you a story. It's a story about a scared little boy who grew into a scared little man who finally, finally grew into someone who could believe in himself. It took this boy decades to learn what I hope some of you already know: that you mustn't allow anyone else to tell you who you are, or what you should be. That you mustn't listen when they tell you who you are isn't enough." 

Eames takes a breath and the crowd hangs on it, hushed and waiting. "If nothing else, I hope you remember this: that happiness is within reach for all of us. We must set out to write our own stories rather than letting the world write them. We must take charge so we may ensure that these stories are happy ones filled with hope and joy and the people you love—whomever they may be."

He cues the music and launches into his last encore, _Without Words_ , the very first single from his debut album. The crowd sings along with him until the end, falling silent as the music fades away. 

"Thank you for coming out tonight, and for listening," Eames says. "I don't know if you'll remember me in twenty years, but the memory of our time together will be one I'll treasure for the rest of my life. Until we meet again, New York. Goodnight, my darling."

* * * * *

"Need a lift?" Cobb asks.

"Sure," Arthur says as he gets in the passenger seat. "Thanks."

"Déjà vu, huh?" Cobb says as he pulls out onto the street. "Feels like yesterday we were kicking off this tour."

"I can't believe it's already over."

"You did a good job," Cobb says, glancing at Arthur. "There were some hiccups, but you worked hard and took precautions to keep Eames safe, even when he thought they were unnecessary. Not everyone's willing to stand up to him like that."

"Thank you," Arthur says, surprised. "I appreciate hearing that."

"I wanted to officially extend an offer to come work for us in London. It'll be a year-long gig protecting Eames while he records his new album. We can arrange for you to get a British work visa, help you find housing, all that stuff. What do you think?"

"I think that sounds amazing." Arthur swallows down the bubble of shock and relief. "When do you want me to get out there?"

"Not for a while," Cobb says. "Eames is going to be flying back with Flowers and he contracts with a private security firm in the UK, so we're covered for now. He's going to be a taking a few weeks off to rest and recuperate, so I'd suggest you do the same."

"Vacation, huh?" Arthur says. "I guess I could do that."

The wrap party is being held in another club, which has the prerequisite swanky decor, open bar, and rooftop terrace. Across the lower level of the bar, Arthur can see Eames seated with a bunch of people in the VIP section. This is what he wanted, Arthur tells himself. He's working with Eames again. And yet—

"There you are, Suits," Flowers says, appearing by his side. "I hear I'm going to be seeing you in London. Congratulations."

"Thank you," he says, not surprised that gossip apparently moves faster than the speed of light. "How's the throat feeling?"

"Not too bad," Flowers replies. "As long as I'm okay to fly out tomorrow, that's all that matters."

"You're going to let first class service soothe your aches and pains?" Arthur asks with a grin.

"You bet I am. I'm going to eat off a fancy menu, sleep on a seat that reclines to a complete horizontal—it's gonna be great," Flowers says. "And hey, it'll be cool to have another American on the team across the pond."

"I hear we'll be working with a security firm over there. What're they like?"

"Bunch of stiffs with accents," she replies. "But come on, let's get you a drink!"

Mindful of what happened the last few times he got drunk in the vicinity of Eames, Arthur decides to stick with a cherry coke. He wanders through the party greeting dancers, roadies, and all the other crew he's come to know over the past few months. They congratulate him on his future job, assuring him he's going to love London.

"You'll have to visit," Yusuf says after they toast to Arthur. "My wife thinks you're an excellent influence and wants you to continue teaching me to make meals that don't involve the microwave."

After Yusuf, Arthur wanders through the crowd until he bumps into Mal, who is also drinking soda. "Congratulations," he says.

"Thank you." She inclines her head to one side regally. "Felicitations to you as well, Arthur. I hear you will be continuing to work with Eames."

"Yes," Arthur says. "I'm very grateful for the opportunity."

"And what about Eames?" she asks as she sips her drink. 

Arthur blinks. "I don't know what you mean."

"Do you think this is a good idea, considering the way he feels about you?"

"The way he—" Arthur shakes his head. "He and I are just—"

"Arthur, really," Mal says, voice taking on an impatient edge. "Playing coy does not become you."

"I'm not playing at anything," he says, something very close to anger beginning to rise up in his gut. "And I doubt your husband is holding a gun to Eames' head, forcing him to keep working with me." 

"My husband is smart enough to know when to pick his battles," she replies. "Eames is a proud and stubborn man who sometimes gets carried away by his feelings. We both know this."

"This is a job, Mal. It's not like he's running off and getting married to someone he met three days ago."

"He hired you after he'd known you less than a day," she says. "Does it really sound so different?"

Arthur makes some flimsy excuse to leave and backs away before he loses his temper and starts arguing with a pregnant woman at a party. He wants to ask what gives her the right to judge, and whether she's considered taking these concerns to the person they should actually be addressed to—that is, Eames. But deep down, Arthur knows that if Mal has resorted to actually talking to Arthur, it probably means she's exhausted all her other options.

He's been careful, so very careful, not to dwell on what happened that night in Boston. There'd seemed to be no point in trying to make sense of the drunken muddle of events, of the why and what Eames was turning down when Arthur could be jettisoned at any moment. And then the offer had come, and now Arthur finds himself not fully prepared to deal with everything that might mean.

"Heyo, Babyface." Arthur's thoughts are interrupted by Casper, who pulls him in for a one-armed hug and seems pleasantly buzzed already. "It's been a solid run, former new guy. We had some good times."

"That we did." Arthur grins back. 

Casper leans in conspiratorially. "The last of the supplies have arrived and are awaiting distribution. Operation Radish has commenced."

"You guys talk to the DJ and the manager?" Arthur asks, nodding meaningfully at the row of flat-screen TVs mounted on the wall.

"We did, and now it's time to move into phase two." Casper takes off to oversee the distribution of supplies, leaving Arthur smiling into his coke. 

Across the room, Eames is talking animatedly with Cobb, laughing at something he's saying. Arthur's happy with the way things turned out, with the fact that he and Eames can still work together. As for Eames, if he were unhappy, if he—

"Earth to Gelinator!" Ariadne says, waving a palm in front of Arthur's face. "You that out of it already?"

He snaps to attention. "Sorry, was thinking about something. Didn't realize you were there."

"Something serious?" She waggles her eyebrows. "Something sexy?"

"Nothing that can't wait," Arthur says. "So your first time on tour is over and done. How'd you like it?"

"It was pretty neat. Saw some stuff, met some people, you know." She shrugs. "And Cobb was talking about maybe giving me some more responsibility. Letting me handle more things on my own now that he's going to be busy with baby-dom."

"Pretty impressive." Arthur raises his drink. "Cheers to your ascendancy up the work ladder, kiddo."

"Kiddo." She snorts, and then grins. "Thanks, Arthur. For being kind of like the big brother I never wanted."

"You always know how to make me feel good inside," he says as he hooks an arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. 

"You'd better keep in touch. I set up a Facebook page for you and friended myself, so no excuses."

"I don’t think that's how friendship works."

"It does on the internet," she replies. "Ooh, hey, Casper's giving the signal. Go time!"

They hurry over to the bar where there's a long row of radish-shaped bottles awaiting them, helping to pass them out to all the guests while the music goes quiet and the flat-screen TVs go dark. There's a minute of silence before a familiar tune, upbeat and obnoxiously catchy, begins to play, and then the image of Eames in white leather fills the screens. Everyone watches, transfixed, as the Eames on-screen dances his way through the commercial next to the animated radishes, stopping only to exclaim, " _Kao o Taberu Hito_ : tastes good!"

The commercial goes off and everyone in the crowd holds up their bottles, crying out in unison, "Tastes good!"

After a moment of blank shock, Eames accepts a proffered bottle and holds it aloft. "Tastes good!" he yells back, grinning as he pops open the cap and takes a deep gulp. The entire bar erupts into applause as he does, hooting even after he's finished drinking. Eames signals to the DJ and someone brings him a microphone.

"Well, at least my corporate sponsor will be pleased that I'm finally making inroads with the American market," Eames murmurs as he climbs onto the platform where the DJ is seated and turns to address the crowd. "But now that I've got your attention—for better or for worse—I'd actually like to say a few words."

Some cheers go up as Eames turns his dazzling grin on the crowd."First of all, I wanted to tell you all how tremendous it's been these past few months. We performed thirty-five sold out concerts in 27 different cities, and absolutely none of that would have been possible without the dedication and hard work all of you brought to this endeavor." 

"I've been touring for years now, and I know how hard it can be to be away from home, friends, family. Sometimes the only way to get through it is relying on the people you're on the road with, the ones you see day in and day out, the ones who become familiar faces in unfamiliar lands. It's been such a pleasure meeting you all, getting to know you all as we collaborated to put on the best show we could. It sounds trite to say that all of you have become my family in the past few months, but I'm afraid I haven't any better words. All I can say is that I mean them from the bottom of my heart."

Eames swallows, voice thickening. "Thank you all so very much. It has been a privilege to tour with you, and an absolute joy for me to go to work every day. I hope to have the opportunity to work with every one of you again sometime in the future. But even if our paths never cross again, I wish you all the greatest happiness and success in your future endeavors." He holds up his bottle again. "Here's to you."

Arthur takes a sip of his drink and joins the round of applause that continues even after Eames has climbed down from the platform. To his right, Ariadne is dabbing at her eyes. "That guy, huh?" she says, sniffling a little. "Why's he gotta be so damn good at everything?"

"He prepares and he practices," Arthur replies as he watches people envelop Eames with hugs and claps on the back. He can see Eames now, standing in front of a mirror and gesturing to himself, figuring out the rhythms of his carefully-edited speech. "He works hard as hell."

As the evening goes on and people get drunker, the conversation and farewells get progressively more emotional as well. Even though Arthur's completely sober, he's touched by the heartfelt good wishes that everyone heaps on him—including the people he had only peripheral relationships with. 

It's nearing four in the morning when Arthur finally sees Eames standing by himself. Before Arthur can catch his attention, Eames heads upstairs onto the rooftop, so Arthur follows.

He finds Eames leaning against the guard rail at the edge off the roof, staring out at the skyline. The roof is empty except for the two of them, and though it's still dark out, the tiniest hints of the sunrise are beginning to peak out in the distant horizon. 

"Hey," Arthur says, careful to make some noise as he approaches so as not to startle. "Great speech tonight."

"Thank you." Eames looks over his shoulder, smiling. "And hat's off to you for ferreting out my little Japanese secret."

"Never should have mocked my Googler skills," Arthur replies as he comes to stand by Eames. "Thanks for being a good sport."

"I wasn't completely joking about my corporate sponsor being pleased," Eames says. "Saito's been trying to figure out how to get a foothold in New York for ages."

"I bet it's going to be the next big thing," Arthur says. "I already heard the bartenders putting together some 'Face-Eater Specials.'"

"I don't want to know what's in them besides the _Kao o Taberu Hito_ ," Eames says, grinning. His grin slips when Arthur doesn't reply immediately. "Arthur?"

"I ran into Mal tonight," Arthur says. He looks straight ahead, at the glittering lights and the sharp outlines of buildings jutting up into the sky. "She said she wasn't sure about us continuing to work together."

"Mal and her meddling." Arthur looks over in time to see Eames duck his head, jaw clenching. "Did she deign to explain why?"

"This isn't meant to be about what she said," Arthur says quietly. "We never—we never got a chance to talk about what happened in Boston."

"You were intoxicated. I gave you some water, which ended up mostly on the sofa or your person, and then sent you back to bed." Eames' words are crisp and succinct. Maybe even practiced.

"And in between all that, I propositioned you." Arthur glances over at Eames. "When you turned me down, I thought it was clear that you didn't—that whatever I thought was there wasn't reciprocal. But now I'm not so sure."

"Are you certain you want to talk about this?" Eames looks up at last, and his expression is careful, guarded. "There are some doors we can't close, even if we never walk through them."

"If we're going to keep working together, we need to be on the same page. And I—" Arthur hesitates. "I care about you, Eames. I don't want to mess this up."

"Alright." Eames takes a few quick, short breaths, bouncing on the balls of his feet the way he had after the first concert they'd worked together. "You wanted something casual that evening and I said no. Not because I didn't want to, because god above, I truly did. But because you have your rules about client romances, and because I—I don't want anything close to casual with you, Arthur." Eames looks at him, eyes clear and open, all the walls abruptly gone. "I want something real. I want to fall in love with you. I want there to be a chance you'd fall in love with me, too."

Arthur swallows. "If we're not working together, we're going to be thousands of miles apart. You have your career, and I'll be following someone else around."

"I know," Eames says softly.

"You also know what it's like, trying to date from the road, trying to do something long distance." Arthur clenches the guardrail hard enough for the cold of the iron to seep in, to bite at his palms. "You fly out tomorrow and I—I don't want to start something we can't finish."

"I thought you'd say as much," Eames says, expression sad. "Which is why I was hoping you'd stay on with me in London. Cobb didn't think it was a good idea, but I wanted—want—you in my life."

"I can't date you if you're my client," Arthur says, bowing his head. "I'm sorry, maybe it seems arbitrary, I don't know. But I've been down that path before and I can't do it again. I won't."

"And thus, we reach an impasse," Eames says as he turns towards the railing as well. 

"What do you want?" Arthur asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"I want you in my life in whatever capacity I can have you. If it's as a bodyguard, so be it. If it's as a friend on the opposite side of the world, I can live with that as well." Eames closes his eyes. "I don't want you to compromise your career or your integrity. I don't want you to be unhappy."

"And I want to work with you." Arthur looks over at Eames' handsome profile, the long line of his throat. It's hard not to want more, not think, _maybe just this once_. But he can't, because _just this once_ is what he'd thought before, too. "You're a great client, and this tour was the best I've ever been on. But if a professional working friendship isn't something you can do, you need to tell me now. So we don't sign up for something that makes us both miserable."

"I'll be fine," Eames says, opening his eyes again. Arthur studies his expression, but the walls are up again, impenetrable as ever. "A few months is all I need, and then I'll be right as rain."

"Okay." Arthur lets go of the railing and tells himself this: this is the right decision. He holds out a hand to Eames. "Friends?"

Eames takes his hand to shake. "Always."

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/3D88K.png)


	7. The Palate Cleanser

> While the importance of paying attention to the reactions of your guests cannot be overstated, equally key is the understanding that universal love and acceptance of your food—and, by extension, _you_ —is a goal beyond the reach of any human who has ever lived or, likely, will ever live. Taste is subjective, appreciation and understanding varies. The preparation of fine cuisine is an art and not a science, which means that like any other art, there will be detractors. Even Shakespeare had his critics.
> 
> So whose word do you take, then? The word of good instructors and mentors who advance not their own agenda, but have your development in mind—certainly. The word of the ones that love you dearly, certainly not, for they seek to spare you anguish—even if that anguish would help you grow. I recommend listening to the ones that love your work: the ones who understand your food, who engage with it, who love _it_ more than you. 
> 
> Make no mistake: the art of cooking may consume us, but it is not all that we are, nor should it be. A true chef must not allow themselves to be defined only by their title, lest they lose their spark, their individuality—the very things that gave their cooking life to begin with.  
>  - _The Land and Food We Live On_ , by Sonya Roy

Eames flies back to London and his crew disperses, returning home or heading off to another job. Arthur lingers in New York (though he's forced to downgrade hotels now that Eames isn't footing the bill), grateful for the time to visit his father, then Beth, Lou Ann, and his infant nephew. It's good to see everyone again, to catch up, even if he does get wrangled into more babysitting duty than he'd like.

When Arthur gets back to Los Angeles, he leaves his suitcase by the door, changes into pajamas, and does nothing but watch television for about a week. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror on the eighth day and realizes that looking like an unshaven serial killer may be the reason why the takeout delivery kid cowers as Arthur's counting out his tip. So Arthur resumes shaving, unpacks his suitcase, and finally goes to the grocery store.

Naturally, this first foray back into society is where he runs into an ex he hasn't seen in at least a year in a half. 

"Arthur?" Tajima asks at the end of the dairy aisle, where Arthur had been meditating whether to get a Stilton blue cheese or a Roquefort. "Is that you?"

Arthur quickly tosses both the in the basket and turns towards Tajima in a manner that hopefully makes him seem casual and collected--not like he's had his ass planted on a couch for days with minimal bathroom breaks. "Hey, wow. Long time no see."

"Yeah, I know, right?" Tajima leans in for a kiss on the cheek that ends up brushing against the corner of Arthur's mouth, sending a flare of arousal straight down his body. "You look great."

"You, too." Arthur shifts the basket because, yeah, Tajima looks fantastic: effortlessly windswept hair, long lean body, and cheekbones that could make a sculptor weep. "How've you been?"

"Pretty good. Business has been up, what with all the tourists visiting. I've been getting good reviews online." Tajima's a professional surfer who competes occasionally, mostly getting by with giving lessons. It's how they first met: Arthur had been walking down a beach where Tajima had been instructing a couple of giggly teenage girls and, despite having next to no interest in learning how to surf, Arthur had signed up for lessons on the spot. "Not as exciting as your summer, I'm sure."

Arthur groans when Tajima holds up a tabloid with the headline, 'EAMES AND BODY BOY SPLIT???' "Don't believe anything you read, especially when it comes to Eames. According to the tabloids, he's sleeping with twenty different people, most of whom are on a different continent whenever they're supposed to be liaising."

"I don't know, the evidence here seems pretty solid," Tajima says as he opens the magazine. "An unnamed source close to Eames claims there have been bitter arguments over whether the color scheme for the wedding should be black and ivory or blue and white. It's threatening to tear the secret engagement apart."

"Well, you know me. I'm a traditionalist," Arthur deadpans. "It's walking down the aisle in white or bust."

Tajima grins as he closes up the magazine. "Hey, you want to go grab lunch? We can catch up."

"Yes," Arthur's stupid mouth says before his mind can catch up. "That sounds great."

An hour later, they're back at his place rutting against each other, groceries lying forgotten on the kitchen counter. _This is a terrible idea_ , Arthur's mind says as he paws at Tajima's belt buckle, _this is only going to end badly_. 

Two frantic, amazing orgasms later, Arthur opens his eyes to the sound of his cell phone buzzing. Tajima is snoring beside him, as heavy a sleeper as ever. Arthur sneaks out of the bedroom with his phone, waiting until he's in the kitchen to answer.

"Hello?" Arthur says quietly as he begins to separate his groceries from Tajima's. 

"Hey," Una replies. "You home yet? Why are you whispering?"

"Yes, and because someone's sleeping in the other room."

"Somebody new already? Christ, you move fast," Una says. "Is he hot? No, don't answer that—they're always hot. I don't know how you keep meeting these absurdly hot men who want to bone you. All I meet are old married men who want to show me pictures of their kids."

"That's because you work in an office where everyone is Mom's age and you're the boss's daughter," Arthur says. "Besides, he's not, uh. Strictly speaking, all that new."

"Oh, Arthur," Una sighs. "You called Tajima as soon as you landed on the tarmac, didn't you?"

"What? No, give me a little credit here." Arthur puts the cheese in the refrigerator and closes the door. "I—ran into him at the grocery store. We started talking."

"And then you started doing it."

"Well. Yeah." Arthur begins un-bagging his produce. "What's that weird tone in your voice?"

"I'm not knocking ex-sex. It can be pretty damn good sometimes. But…"

"What?" Arthur sets down a bag of peas. 

"But are you going to keep it ex-sex?"

"I haven't really thought about it," he replies. "I kind of figured we'd—see where this takes us."

"And if it takes you somewhere that's more than sex?"

Arthur pauses. "I wouldn't be opposed, I guess. He's a great guy and if we're both single and want to give it another try—why not?"

"Okay," is all she says.

"I hear a giant 'but' coming on."

"You guys broke up for a reason," Una says. "Well, a lot of reasons, from what I remember of all those drunk voicemails you left me. Do you really think two years will have fixed the problems you guys couldn't get through before?"

Arthur stares down at his phone after she hangs up, and strangely enough finds himself wanting to talk to Eames about this. Arthur wants to hear his take on ex-sex, listen to him tell a funny story, ask him what he'd do in this situation. 

But that really isn't an option. Maybe one day their status as 'friends' will move beyond being merely nominal and they'll be able to talk like they used to. One day.

Arthur finishes putting away all the groceries, including the ones in Tajima's bags that need to be refrigerated, and returns to bed.

"Hey," Tajima says, smiling sleepily when Arthur crawls under the covers. "Where'd you run off to?"

"My sister called," Arthur says. "And I had to put away the groceries before they spoiled."

"My responsible man in black," Tajima says as he traces Arthur's eyebrow with his thumb. "Never could turn away when duty calls."

"You know me too well." Arthur turns to kiss his thumb. "Maybe we could start over, you and me. Give us another try."

"Are you sure?" Tajima asks. "I know we were kind of joking around at the grocery store but—there isn't anyone else, is there?"

The image of Eames in the hazy pre-dawn light of New York flashes through Arthur's mind. "No," he says. "There's no one else."

* * * * *

Arthur settles into a routine more quickly than he expects: wake up in the morning and work out, come back home to field a shocking amount of email (which include job prospects from around the world, now), and then go to the beach or read a book or do whatever the hell else he wants. Some nights he gets dinner with Tajima (they're taking it slow to avoid lapsing into old habits—with limited success), and other nights Arthur fixes himself dinner and watches the news.

It's odd to not be working, to not have to make plans with the caveat that he might be called away at any moment. For the first three weeks, it feels like a vacation in his own home. 

And then the restlessness begins to creep in.

First, he catches up on errands and paperwork: checks on his investments, sorts the backlog of mail that's accumulated, cleans his apartment. Then he joins a martial arts studio and brushes up on his jiu-jitsu. He starts going out to more movies, seeing the plays he's been meaning to check out. This is fun, until he runs out of new things to see. 

He attends a conference on high tech security devices and gets recognized by an unnerving amount of vendors who want to sell Eames their systems. On the other hand, Arthur does end up exchanging business cards with a few people in the industry who have contacts in the UK and the rest of Europe.

He starts working out more. It turns out that during the day, the gym TVs are set exclusively to channels like TMZ and E!, all of which feature a heavy rotation of footage involving Eames. This is fine for a while, until Arthur realizes that he gets sucked into watching Eames as well, noting the bags under his eyes, the practiced smile he gives every time some reporter asks him an idiotic question, the cold distance between him and his new bodyguards (Flowers was right: they are a bunch of stiffs).

Arthur lobbies management for a change in channels, but the outcry by the rest of the gym-goers is so bad that they switch back the very next day. He resigns himself to the interviews and stream of baseless gossip, but some of the things he hears are so strange he almost wants to call Eames, ask him: how the hell did that interviewer get from point A to point B? He can't, of course, and Cobb hasn't emailed him the paperwork for the job yet, so Arthur calls Ariadne.

"I was wondering about the contract," Arthur starts.

"Working on it," Ariadne says, sounding out of breath and stressed. "Sorry about the delay, it's been kind of hectic over here."

"Everything okay?"

"Oh, sure, yeah, everything's fine," she replies. "I mean, Cobb's off preparing to be a dad, Eames will not stop posting bizarre rumors about himself on the internet, and the security firm we're working with are a bunch of humorless pricks, but other than that, everything's A-Okay! Fine and dandy! Peaches and roses! Shit, is that even a saying?"

"It—could be," Arthur says. "How—"

"Oh god, I think Eames has figured out the password for his official Twitter account," she says. "Oh shit, he's started tweeting. I have to stop him. I have to—"

The line goes dead and Arthur stares down at the phone. "How are you doing, Arthur?" he asks into the quiet. "I'm doing great. Wonderful. Never been better."

* * * * *

"Are you using the internet for fun?" Tajima asks as he drops a kiss on the top of Arthur's head. "Is this a sign of the apocalypse?"

"Right before the rain of frogs," Arthur says. He's typing out a capslocked reply to a comment by someone calling themselves 'eamesuxxors' claiming that Eames is a no-talent, two-bit hack. Why anyone would register that handle on an ihearteames.com forum is beyond Arthur.

"That's a lot of exclamation points," Tajima observes as he settles in behind Arthur and wraps his arms around Arthur's waist. "I didn't know you were into music now."

"I'm not," Arthur says. "I'm just pointing out that, objectively speaking, this comment is incorrect. Eames plays five musical instruments, writes almost all his own lyrics, and coproduces most of his work. He's certainly not getting by on 'luck' or 'mass delusions that he can dance.'"

"I've never seen you so passionate about a client before."

"Well, it's—" Arthur flushes. "It's in my best interest to defend his career. I mean, if it goes into a decline, he may not need me as a bodyguard anymore."

"And I'm sure random trolls on the internet pose a grave threat."

Arthur frowns, and turns to look at Tajima. "Why does it sound like you're trying to pick a fight?"

"I—" Tajima stops and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm a little jealous that you're paying more attention to some guy on the internet than me right now. It's been kind of a long day."

"No, I'm sorry." Arthur exits out of the internet browser and turns to face Tajima fully. "I'm being rude. Let's go to bed."

* * * * *

Arthur's waiting in line at the checkout counter when something on the rack next to the Breathsaverz catches his eye. 'ROMANTIC REUNION BETWEEN EAMES AND OLD FLAME SOLANGE WILLIAMS?' the tabloid headline reads, and below is a picture of Eames accompanied by a woman with long, dark hair. She's very beautiful.

That night, Arthur hops on the ihearteames.com boards and scans the 'Gossip' section. According to the multiple threads devoted purely to speculation on Eames' love life, Solange is a R&B singer of some renown back in England, and, more importantly, Eames' ex-girlfriend. The couple had split after four years as an item, and some fans claim that several of his songs were inspired by her ('My Future', 'She'll Never Cry', and 'When Heartbreak Arrives' among others). 

The threads are inconclusive regarding the question of whether they've gotten back together, though there are more photos of them having dinner together. Arthur clicks through all of them, and something tightens in his chest at every photo which captures Eames' smile.

He wonders whether Eames will tell her about what happened between them. "A passing fancy," he might say. "Nothing to concern yourself with, my love."

Arthur closes the browser window and shuts down the computer. He's with Tajima now; he shouldn't care.

* * * * *

"Hey, you," Tajima says, blinking in the bright sunlight as Arthur approaches. Tajima's shirtless and in black board shorts, hair slicked back from being in the water semi-recently. It makes Arthur miss taking surfing lessons with him. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd swing by and see if I could catch you in between appointments," Arthur replies, and holds out a smoothie. "Mango-kiwi?"

"My favorite." Tajima smiles as he gives Arthur a kiss tinged with sea salt. "I can't believe you remembered."

"Of course." Arthur digs his toes into warm sand as he sips his own cherry flavored smoothie. "Do you need to get back, or--?"

"Nah, my three o'clock called to cancel," Tajima says. "Plus, with you and this smoothie here, my afternoon just got a lot better."

"Happy to help." Arthur chuckles as they begin to walk down the beach together. They're a ways off the main boardwalk, so the area isn't too packed with people.

"I think I'm starting to like this unemployment thing you've got going on," Tajima says, arm brushing Arthur's companionably. "Should I be expecting more smoothies in the future?"

"That's actually why I came to see you," Arthur says, glancing over. "I was hoping we could talk about my next job."

"Ah." Tajima's smile fades. "Too good to last for long, huh?"

"Taji…"

"So this job," Tajima says. "It'll be with Eames, right? Another tour?"

"Not exactly." Arthur swallows; this is more difficult to say than he'd expected. "It'll be in London, guarding him while he records his album. For a year."

"A year," Tajima repeats, slowly. "That's. Wow."

"I know it seems like a long time, but the hours and the scheduling are going to be a lot more stable, and I'll hardly be traveling at all." Arthur stops and turns to face Tajima. "It won't be like it was before."

"Right." Tajima looks down at his half-finished smoothie, and then out at the ocean. "Because you'll be in another country, guarding a sexy pop star who wants to sleep with you."

"Me and Eames agreed to maintain a professional working relationship as friends and nothing more," Arthur says. "If I'm with you, it doesn't matter where I am or who I'm working for. I'm with you."

"Yeah," Tajima says quietly. 

"You don't believe me?"

"I—" Tajima scrubs a hand over his face. "I do believe you. It's just a lot to take in. Do you know when you'll be leaving?"

"I haven't received the contract with the exact terms yet, but it should be coming soon," Arthur says. "I probably won't be starting for another few months, at the soonest."

"Yeah." Tajima smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Enough time for a few more smoothies, I guess."

* * * * *

The contract comes a few days later, and the terms are fair. Arthur's set to start in three months, work a year in London, and there's the option to discuss renewal at the end of six months. All he has to do is sign and mail it back.

When Arthur shares the news, there's a silence, and then Tajima says, "That's great, baby. That's really—let's go out. We can go to that restaurant, the one with the chef you like."

"Really?" Arthur says cautiously. "But you hate getting dressed up and going to fancy restaurants."

"Are you implying that I don't clean up nice?" Tajima asks, raising an eyebrow, and Arthur chuckles, a little relieved.

So they make reservations, get dressed, and go. Arthur wears a gray suit from Rodeo Drive paired with one of the shirts Eames picked out, a lavender that makes Tajima pause and cock his head to one side. "You've gotten so much more colorful," he says, but Arthur's not sure whether it's a compliment.

The drive to the restaurant is quiet. Tajima seems lost in his own thoughts while he drives, so Arthur sits in silence, watching the traffic crawl by. A few bars of _Let Me Make You Smile_ come on the radio, and Tajima switches the station.

When they reach the restaurant, Arthur says, "Thanks for doing this, Taji."

"I know how hard you work, baby," Tajima replies. "If anyone deserves it, it's you." 

The menu is eclectic—a blend of classic American dishes, some traditional Indian cuisine, and fusions of both. Arthur wants to try everything, but he contents himself with pani puri, tomato soup, and palek paneer. It's all utterly fantastic: spicy and delicious and filled with flavor Arthur thinks he'll be savoring for days. The presentation is so far from ostentatious it borders on severe, with some sly touches of humor in the garnishing. The service is excellent, discreet but attentive, and the decoration romantic and intimate. Arthur doesn't believe in perfect meals (and neither does Sonya) but it is wonderful.

Across the table, Tajima smiles, and lets him eat.

When they get back to the apartment, Tajima leads Arthur to bed and makes love to him slowly, gently. For the first time since Arthur came back to LA, he feels his heart lift with the hope that maybe, maybe this could work. There's a spark between them like a live-wire, a passion that pulls them together when all else fails—and really, what's a year in the grand scheme of the future they could have together?

The next morning, Arthur wakes up to find Tajima sitting up in bed, thumbing through the pages of the contract. Arthur slides over to rest his head on Tajima's thigh. "Anything interesting?"

"Mostly incomprehensible," Tajima replies as he takes off his reading glasses. "Other than the part where you're leaving for a year."

"I've been thinking," Arthur starts, tracing a pattern on Tajima's knee, "maybe we could move in together. Over in London."

"You want me to come with you," Tajima says, voice flat.

Arthur looks up. "You don't want to?"

"It's not that I don't want to, it's—" Tajima runs a hand through his hair. "I'm a surfing instructor, Arthur. Last I heard, London wasn't exactly known for its awesome waves."

Arthur sits up. "You could get a different job. Work in an office. It'd only be temporary." But as he soon says it, he knows it's weak; surfing and the ocean are Tajima's life. 

"And what about my competitions? How am I going to train?"

Arthur swallows a hard lump in his throat. "I'm going to be making good money. I could—"

"You could stay," Tajima says. "Isn't that why you moved out to LA in the first place? To try to get hired by one of the billion celebrities that live here all year round?"

"You mean turn down this job?" Arthur stares at Tajima blankly. "That's—but I've been working my whole career towards—"

"Guarding an A-List celebrity, I know. But you've already worked for him and it's on your resume now. You told me you're getting offers from all over—is this the only one you'll consider?"

"I—" Arthur falters. "I thought you were happy for me. I thought you were okay with this."

"I thought I was, too, or at least I thought I could be." Tajima shakes his head. "But don't you remember what it was like the last time we did this? How hard it was to even schedule a phone call with the time-zone differences and your crazy hours? How every time I tried to visit, something with your client would always come up?"

"This isn't going to be like that, though," Arthur says. "Eames isn't like the other assholes I've worked for before. For one thing, he's sane."

Tajima snorts out a reluctant laugh, but it fades almost immediately. "I don't think I can do it again, Arthur. I don't want to go back to feeling like I'm in half a relationship."

"There has to be some middle ground here," Arthur says helplessly. "Please don't make me choose between you and my career."

"Is this really about your career?" Tajima asks wearily as he stands. "Because last I checked, you could have a career anywhere, not just in London. And not just working for Eames."

"Taji," Arthur starts, but the words stick in his throat as he watches Tajima leave.

* * * * *

They try to work it out. Tajima starts looking into other parts of the world where he could continue to surf while Arthur starts looking into other job prospects. Aside from certain parts of Australia, there doesn't seem to be much overlap, and Arthur's not even sure he could actually get a job out there worth the cost of moving them both. His contacts are based mostly in the US or Europe, and neither of them know anyone in the southern hemisphere.

_You could stay here_ is the sentence that hovers over Arthur's head as he searches. When he'd first moved out to LA, it'd seemed like a reasonable choice: sunny skies and a seemingly endless supply of celebrities in need of security services. Not that he'd made any headway in meeting with said celebrities at the beginning of his career.

Now that he's actually got the reputation and the network to get interviews, Arthur starts to realize that not only would he be regressing in terms of clients (plenty of A-list stars need bodyguards, very few of them can be dubbed people he wants to spend all day with) but also in terms of duties; in LA, it seems that most bodyguards are expected to double as chauffeurs and possibly even errand boys. There doesn't even seem to be much room for advancement, as most of the clients have been working with a large circle of particular guards or firms for years, and it's made abundantly clear to Arthur that he would be on the very bottom of a rather large totem pole.

He even looks into working at a security firm instead of freelancing for the first time, but all the worthwhile opportunities take him outside the country again, and none to Australia. 

A month passes. Arthur doesn't sign the contract with Eames, but neither he nor Tajima get any closer to a workable solution. 

When Tajima finally calls it quits, it's not a surprise. Arthur wishes that made it hurt less.

* * * * *

The first thing Arthur does after Tajima breaks up with him is put on his pajamas and hit the couch. Hours of mindless reality TV and cooking shows offer him solace until he runs out of groceries and catches the delivery boy recoiling in fear at his unshaven countenance again.

Eventually he calls Una, who makes sympathetic noises and doesn't say, _I told you so_ , which he appreciates. 

He cleans himself up and starts going to the gym again, listening to the blare of _Wizards and Wings_ coming from the headphones of the person one treadmill over while the TV plays footage of Eames walking down a red carpet with some blonde starlet.

Arthur closes out the week by putting on the tightest T-shirt he owns, hailing a taxi, and proceeding to get so drunk he forgets all about wizards, surfers, and wings.

* * * * *

"Hey." Someone's poking at Arthur's shoulder and will not stop. "You're ringing."

Arthur grudgingly scoots over, dangling an arm over the side of the bed and groping around until he finds his discarded pants. It takes him a minute to extract the phone hidden within the depths of a pocket, but meanwhile, it continues to ring. The caller doesn't seem to get that it's far too early for this shit.

"Hello?" Arthur mumbles into the phone, thankful that at least the poking and ringing have both finally stopped.

"Arthur?" The voice is familiar, the accent British—Arthur sits up with a jolt when he realizes it's Eames. "Did I wake you? I'm so sorry, I thought I'd checked the time difference, but I must have bollocksed up the calculation."

Arthur glances over at the clock, which states, to his horror, that it's nearly two in the afternoon on a Friday. On the other side of the bed is a stranger he only vaguely recognizes from last night—Larry? Harry? The names and faces had all started to blur together sometime after the fifth drink.

"No, I'm awake, sorry." Arthur hauls himself out of bed and winces when some dried come pulls against his pubic hair. "Let me just—"

"I should call back later," Eames says. "You're probably in the middle of something."

"No, no, it's fine." Arthur scurries into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. "I, um. How are you?"

"Good. It's, ah, it's been busy, but otherwise excellent. And yourself?"

"Keeping busy here, too." Arthur fumbles open the medicine cabinet and digs out a bottle of Tylenol. "Gym, movies, training. I also swung by Sonya's restaurant."

"Oh really? How was the food? As divine as you'd hoped?"

Arthur finds himself smiling as he swallows the Tylenol and his water. "Better than I'd hoped. And you'd be proud—I wore a lavender shirt to mark the occasion."

Eames' laughter is bright and clear, somehow nice to hear even through Arthur's pounding hangover. "Well, lavender is the color of victory, and so wholly appropriate to commemorate such a day."

Arthur leans against the chilly tile of the wardrobe, feeling goosebumps rise up on his arms. "How's the mother country?"

"Quiet, on the whole. Constanza and Cobb are of the opinion that I should 'take a break' from it all, so my calendar's been frightfully empty."

"Forced vacation, huh?"

Eames hums. "Indeed. I alternate between terrible boredom and tremendous relief. Perhaps I'd enjoy it more if I were lying on a beach somewhere instead of sitting in a musty old house."

"Then why don't you take a trip somewhere warm? Drink some pina coladas, sleep on the sand…"

"I find that's the sort of trip I prefer to take with a companion," Eames says. "Who else will slather suntan lotion on the spots I can't reach?"

Arthur closes his eyes at the vision of Eames lying next to that dark-haired woman, gazing at her adoringly. "I'm sure you could rustle up a few interested parties. I hear there are websites for that now."

"Adult friend finder: the cure to all that ails me," Eames says, voice light and amused. "Perhaps I could receive a lucrative corporate sponsorship from them as well."

Arthur chuckles. "I'd like to see that commercial."

"Oh good lord, Arthur," Eames says, affecting a higher register and posher accent. "You're going to make me blush, you scoundrel."

Arthur laughs. "Apologies for offending your delicate sensibilities. So… was there something specific you were calling about?"

"Oh, well, ah—I wanted to check in and confirm that you'd received all the details and the paperwork for the job. Cobb told me he'd sent it along a few weeks ago." Eames sounds uncertain—nothing like the way he presents himself to the rest of the world. 

"Yeah, I have the contract. I've just been thinking." Arthur opens his eyes and looks at himself in the mirror. It's pretty rough. "About what I want from my career."

"Of course," Eames says, voice shifting back into something smooth and unreadable. "I completely understand. You should certainly consider all your options."

"Yeah. Oh, and Eames?"

"Yes?"

"This was nice," Arthur says quietly. "Talking again. I've missed this."

There's a pause. "As have I."

"I should probably go," Arthur says. "I'll talk to you later."

* * * * *

Arthur waits. He's standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, smiling politely at the cashier while the people behind him grumble. All his groceries have been rung up except for a single box of gourmet chocolate-covered cherries, which had no tag. A bag boy was sent to go do a price-check, and while Arthur is tempted to say fuck it and go, those candies really do look delicious.

"I hear he's working on a new album," the cashier says, gesturing to the glossy magazine at the top of Arthur's bag with Eames on the cover. 

"Oh," Arthur replies, taking a moment to register what she's saying. "Right, yeah."

"I love his music," she continues. "All the tickets to his concerts sold out in days, I heard. I would have liked to have gone, but no way can I afford scalpers' prices."

"He puts on a great show," Arthur says. "I'd highly recommend it."

"You've been? I'm so jealous." The cashier sighs. "One of my friends went to a meet and greet with him and said he was so nice. Really humble and sweet and funny."

"Yeah," Arthur says, looking down at the magazine. "He's pretty amazing."

Arthur remembers accompanying Eames to the magazine photo-shoot. It'd been a brief one—only a few hours—though the photographer had insisted Eames put on a ridiculous ruffled shirt and vest combination. It'd made him look like a pirate ripped straight off the front of a Harlequin romance novel. 

Eames had posed gamely, managing to keep a straight face until the end of the shoot in his dressing room, whereupon he'd caught Arthur's hand, struck a ridiculous pose, and said, "Darling, let's be adventurers!"

"Only if I get a fifty percent cut of the booty," Arthur had responded.

"Scallywag," Eames had replied, fondly. "Whatever would I do without your foresight and practicality?"

"Founder on the rocks briefly before picking yourself up and conquering the world?"

"Or suffer an inglorious death via inflatable radishes," Eames had replied, grinning. "Best not to take the chance. Fifty percent it is, then."

The bag boy returns triumphantly with a tagged box of cherry chocolates, and the cashier rings it up. Arthur pays, and the cashier smiles as she passes him the receipt.

"I'll have to keep an eye out for the next time he's touring in LA," she says. "Maybe camp out online when his tickets come on sale."

"Yeah," Arthur replies. "He's worth it."

As Arthur walks to the car, he thinks about the last time he saw Eames in person. It's been months, which seems impossible because he sees Eames everywhere: on billboards, newsstands, the TV. But that's not the real thing, only a polished image masterminded by Constanza and rehearsed to perfection, the ideal of a pop star created for people across the world to adore.

The real Eames, Arthur knows, is brilliant and dramatic and thoughtful and kind. He snores and has morning breath and owns more shoes than he can ever wear. He makes Arthur laugh, he listens to Arthur complain, he cares about Arthur's career and happiness. He's someone that--

_He's someone that I want_ , Arthur thinks. _He's someone that I want to be with._

* * * * *

FROM: ariadne.destroyerofworlds@eamesmail.com  
TO: a.bodyguard.is.born@eamesmail.com  
SUBJECT: Re: eames  
ATTACHMENTS: c1.jpg, c2.jpg, c3.jpg, c4.jpg, c5.jp, c6.jpg, c7.jpg, c8.jpg, c9.jpg, c10.jpg

 

He's not back with Solange. They're trying to be friends because they're both Famous British Musicians or something, but it's not really working. She's engaged to someone else, I think.

Yeah, he should be around all week. I don't know if he has any personal plans for that time, but no official work gigs.

 

PS – Celestine's people forwarded us some of the proofs from the photoshoots. We're not sure what's going to run in the magazine yet, but I thought you might like to see. I've attached the digital copies to this email. They came out really beautifully.  
PPS – Remember to aim AWAY from the keyboard ;)

* * * * *

Arthur makes some calls, sends a shit-ton of emails, and when the companies finally start getting back to him, he's ready.

"Mr. Peters," Browning says as he rises to shake his hand across the desk. "I've heard a lot about you."

"I'm glad to hear that," Arthur replies, taking a seat. "I'm really excited to learn more about this position, and to see whether it might be a good fit for both of us."


	8. The Dessert

> My last piece of advice is this: have fun. The culinary life is no easy procession of cake and accolades; the work is often tedious, the hours long, the effort backbreaking. But for all that, it can still be a wonderful and fulfilling career, a constant expression of who we are and how we came to be. 
> 
> When a guest takes their first bite of a dish you have prepared, they are engaging (whether they know it or not) with your culture, your training, and your individual past. They are tasting the flower of a seed which was planted the first time you read a recipe, the first time you watched another person cook, the first time you took a raw ingredient and tried to make it into something more. 
> 
> Similarly, when you taste the food prepared by another chef, you are tasting the product of their culinary tradition, their past, and their unique personality. What a marvelous thing it is that through art, through food, through the act of sitting together at a table, we can share our stories, and experience the stories of others.  
>  - _The Land and Food We Live On_ , by Sonya Roy

Eames opens the door on the first knock. Most of the surprise was wiped out by the security checkpoint Arthur had to pass through (the guards had given him a stern pat-down, taken a photo, and radioed ahead to make sure Eames knew him), but Eames still seems vaguely bemused as he ushers Arthur inside his house.

Eames looks good, Arthur notes. He's wearing a red button-down with gold thread running through it, and well-tailored black pants. His hair's gotten longer.

"I can't work as your bodyguard anymore," Arthur says as Eames leads him into the living room. "I didn't want to just call to tell you this, because I—I have a lot to say to you. If you'll listen."

"I can't say I'm not disappointed that we'll no longer be able to work together, but I understand." Eames gestures for Arthur to take the sofa while he sits in an armchair. The bemusement is gone, replaced with a gracious host's air. "And you have my ear for as long as you wish it."

"I got a job offer in London with a security firm that specializes in protecting politicians and high profile business executives." Arthur sits in the middle of the sofa and rests his elbows on his knees. "I might still have to travel, but it should only be occasionally. And it'll be good for me to get experience working in a company, especially if I want to start my own sometime in the future."

"That's excellent news," Eames says, expression still smooth and impenetrable. "Congratulations, I know you will be magnificent."

"And there's something else." Arthur reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small jewelry box. "This is for you."

"What's this?" Eames asks, and the puzzlement is back. 

"I'm not that good at grand declarations," Arthur says. "Sometimes it takes me a while to figure out how I feel about something, and by then the moment's already passed. And I really hope that—that our moment hasn't passed already."

Eames opens the box, his mouth forms a soft 'o' in surprise. "This is—these are…"

"They're water dragons," Arthur says as Eames takes out one heavy gold cufflink. "I watched an interview where you were talking about your tattoos, and about the Chinese legend that if a koi could swim up the river and successfully climb the waterfalls, it would become a dragon. I thought—" Arthur swallows. "Maybe it was time you had something to commemorate all the waterfalls you've climbed." As soon as the words are out, he cringes, "Oh god, that sounded so much better in my head on the plane. I—"

"They're beautiful," Eames says. "Arthur, they're wonderful."

"I was hoping, and this may be presumptuous of me, but—" Arthur reaches out to touch Eames' wrist, his calloused hand. "If there isn't anyone else—that is, if you—"

"Arthur," Eames says, rotating his wrist to catch Arthur's fingers in his.

"I want to fall in love with you, too, Eames," Arthur says, forcing himself to look up into Eames' eyes, gray and blue and green all at once. "If you still want to try."

The most gorgeous smile spreads across Eames' face—one that crinkles his eyes and furrows his forehead, absolutely nothing rehearsed about it at all. "I do. I very much do."

Arthur scoots closer to Eames, reaching out to touch. It's so much better now, in the sober light of day, with Eames beaming and reaching towards him as well. They meet somewhere in the middle, Arthur hanging off the edge of his seat while Eames leans forward, noses bumping as they try to kiss. Eames ducks his head, grinning a little bashfully, and Arthur thinks, _this is really happening._

Arthur brings a hand up to Eames' jaw, guiding his head gently back up so Arthur can lean in and kiss him chastely on the lips. Arthur feels warmth suffuse his body—arousal, but a bone-deep joy and relief as well. Eames smells like cologne and tastes like Assam tea and oatmeal-raisin cookies, full-bodied with a touch of fruit-sweet.

Arthur stands and makes his way between Eames' legs, leaning down to cup Eames' face and drop tiny kisses on his nose, his chin, his cheeks. "Do you want to wait?" Arthur asks. "I could take you out, make you dinner—"

"I think we've both waited long enough," Eames replies, voice thick in his throat as his fingers tug Arthur's shirt from his waistband.

Arthur slides down to press his face into the crook of Eames' neck. He kisses and licks over Eames' Adam's apple, drifting down into the hollow of his throat while Eames makes quick work of the buttons on both their shirts. 

Arthur inhales deeply, and underneath the cologne he can smell _Eames_ —the faintest trace of clean sweat, of musk, of something almost pepperminty. It's intoxicating, and Arthur kisses his way down Eames' chest to his belly button, giving the little dip a lick while Eames lets out a startled laugh.

"Come up here," Eames says, urging Arthur up. "I want to see you."

Arthur allows Eames to drag him into a lingering kiss, mouths opening for inquisitive swipes of tongue that grow bolder and bolder. Arthur buries his fingers in Eames' hair, losing himself in the kiss for what feels like ages.

When they pull apart for air, Eames sits back and gives Arthur a frank and appreciative once-over. "You're even better than I imagined."

"You've already seen me without my shirt on," Arthur says, amused.

"But I was trying so desperately to be good, then," Eames says as Arthur shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt and drapes it over the coffee table. "While you were covering yourself in water and stripping."

"This from the guy who wore only half a shirt the second time we met." Arthur runs his fingertips along the unyielding planes of Eames' chest, over smooth skin and the light, short hair. "And how do you think I felt, watching you run around in the tiniest orange Speedo known to man?"

"Like you should have joined me in the water?" Eames says, grinning as he shrugs out of his shirt as well. "Engaged in a rousing game of chicken?"

Arthur smirks. "There was only one person at that party whose legs I want wrapped around my head." 

"If you say Algernon, my heart is going to shatter into a thousand pieces," Eames says, pausing in the middle of undoing his pants. 

"It's the Mohawk," Arthur says. "If only you could grow a bright orange—"

"The damage is irrevocable." Eames abandons his pants and collapses back into his chair with the back of a hand flung dramatically over his forehead. "I shall never be whole again."

Arthur laughs, climbing onto the armchair to straddle Eames' lap. "Never?"

"Never," Eames confirms, eyes closed even as his hips grind up against Arthur's.

"What if I told you I had a dream about you?" Arthur murmurs as he trails kisses along Eames' jaw, pausing to lightly bite at his earlobe.

One eye opens. "Go on."

"You were wearing a tuxedo." Arthur rubs up against Eames' abs, the friction more a tease than anything through underwear and pants. "And you were singing as you stripped for me."

Eames' hands run down the length of Arthur's spine to his ass, squeezing. "Singing?"

"It was while I was staying on your bus," Arthur says. "I came so fucking hard, just dreaming about you, lying under a blanket that smelled like you—"

"Bloody hell," Eames breathes out, hands circling around to pull at Arthur's belt buckle, his fly. "Why are you still—"

Arthur laughs as they try to find a way for him to wriggle out of his pants and shoes without getting off Eames' lap. After a few minutes of contorting, Arthur gives up and stands, kicking off all his remaining clothing as quickly as humanly possible. Eames shoves his pants down to his ankles but gets no further before Arthur slides down between his legs and buries his face in Eames' groin.

"You smell so fucking good," Arthur says, because it's true. He noses against the outline of Eames' dick through his plum-colored briefs, jutting and straining against the thin cotton. "I want to lick your balls and then suck your dick," Arthur says, looking up as he runs his palms along the inside of Eames' thighs. "What do you think?"

"That sounds lovely, yes, thank you," Eames replies, voice faint. His eyes are practically all pupil now, dark and heavy-lidded as he bites his lower lip.

"So polite," Arthur says, smiling as he hooks his thumbs into Eames' underwear and eases it down his powerful legs. There's wiry hair, and a gorgeous dick, and the aroma of Eames so male and raw it leaves Arthur breathless. Eames' cock curves back towards his stomach, drooling precome. Arthur wants to bend down and taste, but first things first.

Arthur touches Eames' balls, rolling them gently in his hand, enjoying the feel and weight of them. With his other hand, he presses lightly against Eames' thighs, encouraging him to lean back and spread his legs wider. Eames does this without any trace of discomfort, and Arthur spares a moment to wonder just how flexible he might be before returning to the task at hand.

Arthur ventures a thumb behind Eames' ballsack, skimming over his perineum and along the cleft of his ass, smiling when he feels Eames' cock twitch at the contact. "The next time we do this," Arthur says as he gives Eames' sac a kitten lick, "I'm going to eat you out for hours."

"You can do anything you want to me," Eames says, voice shaky as he touches Arthur's cheek carefully, tenderly. "Anything at all."

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that, so he begins licking Eames in earnest, sucking lightly and taking one ball into his mouth, then the other. He tongues the whole area lavishly, bathing Eames' sac in saliva, relishing the shape of it in his mouth. He keeps going until Eames' fingers make their way to the back of his neck, snake into his hair, tugging lightly as Eames mumbles, "Arthur, please—"

Arthur gives Eames' sac a parting kiss before licking a stripe from the base of Eames' cock to the head, where the foreskin has already pulled back. Arthur laps at the precome that's dribbled onto Eames' stomach (thin, salty-sweet) and then at what's pearled at his slit, causing Eames to moan above him. Arthur takes a shuddering inhale, letting the pungent, unadulterated scent of Eames fill his nostrils as arousal courses through his body.

Arthur fumbles a hand around his own dick as he finally, _finally_ , gets his mouth around the head of Eames' cock, resting just the head against his tongue. Eames' hips jerk abortively as Arthur tongues the glans, savoring the weight and warmth of it in his mouth. He wants to make himself come like this, rutting against his hand with the tip of a beautiful cock inside his mouth like the most appetizing tease, but vaguely he remembers that this isn't only about him. _One day_ , Arthur thinks as he wraps his free hand around the base of Eames' cock and begins to take in more.

Eames is breathing heavily above him, short gasps bordering on pants as Arthur begins to move up and down. Arthur sucks hard, increasing the pressure until Eames' hips twitch involuntarily, and switches to swirling his tongue over the head and against the shaft. 

He loses himself in mapping out the texture and taste of Eames' dick, the brush of hair against his nose and upper lip as he takes it all the way down, filling his mouth and throat so completely Arthur can't help but moan. He's so hard and wet his palm is almost slipping as it flies over his cock.

"Arthur," Eames whispers, voice raspy. "I'm going to—I—"

Arthur deepthroats his cock until Eames stutters and groans, pulling off to catch the first drops of come on his tongue (it's as sweet as Arthur had imagined, light with a hint of honey). Eames finally loses control as he climaxes, pumping his cock into Arthur's mouth, filling him over and over. Arthur can't move, can't do anything besides swallow and strip his own dick until he comes, too, moaning and breathless.

"Darling," Eames murmurs as Arthur reluctantly backs off his cock, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. Eames drags Arthur up to lie half on top of him again, reaching in for frenzied kisses. "Can I—" Eames pauses when his questing fingers reach Arthur's softening dick, the mess of spunk dribbling down the shaft. "Did you—"

"You taste really good," Arthur says, humming contentedly as he kisses Eames. "And I don't like to spit."

"I recall you mentioning something about that before," Eames replies, sounding more than a little out of breath. "I wasn't, ah, sure if that would apply in this context."

"You've thought about this before?" Arthur teases.

"I've thought about it so often I swore hair was going to grow on my palms," Eames replies. "Do you remember when you first saved my life? How all the reporters could not get enough of you after?"

"Unfortunately," Arthur sighs. The grass stains never did come out of that suit. "Wait, did you—you jerked off to videos of me?"

"I'm fairly certain you soaked the knickers of practically everyone who saw that footage," Eames replies. "Why do you think they aired it so frequently on the telly afterwards?"

Arthur blinks. He'd never really thought about it. "Slow… news day?"

"There you were, with your loose tie and flushed cheeks, hair curling just so." Eames props his head on one hand, eyes dreamy. "You were stoic and collected, and then you spoke in this sultry baritone—"

"That—" Arthur coughs. "That's not how I remember it."

"You had a smudge right here." Eames touches the edge of Arthur's cheekbone. "And I wanted nothing more than to throw you to the ground it and lick it off your face. A most inconvenient urge when one is being interviewed about near-death experiences, I'll have you know."

"Well." Arthur smiles. "You weren't so bad yourself."

Eames' expression softens into something warm and happy. "Let's get cleaned up, and I'll give you the tour of my home."

* * * * * 

"When I was on duty overseas, my superior officers told us to stay away from the embedded reporters. Polite but distant was the tag line," Arthur says as he watches Eames serve the chef's salad he'd tossed together. "And for the most part, that's what I did. Except there was this one reporter—Raafe."

There hadn't been much to eat in Eames' refrigerator besides old takeout and frozen TV dinners, so Arthur had written up a list, and Eames had made a call. An hour later, all the ingredients for salad and seared steak with a wine reduction sauce had arrived, ready for preparation.

"What was he like?" Eames asks as he makes the first cut into his steak.

"Smart. Funny. Always had a book on him, but I never saw him read it." Arthur takes a bite of his steak; it's a touch overdone, but not too bad considering he'd never used Eames' pans or stove before. "I asked him about it and he laughed, said he carried it to remind him of home. He lent it to me to read."

Eames takes a bite of the steak and chews thoughtfully. "You never really talk about your time in the military."

"In some ways, it feels like it happened to someone else," Arthur replies. "I was just a kid for most of it even though I thought I wasn't. There were things I was told to do that I—that I wasn't really prepared for."

"Isn't it funny how we are most certain about our ability to face the world when we know the least about it?" Eames says, smiling faintly.

Arthur huffs a little laugh. "Everything was so black and white, right up until it wasn't anymore. Before I shipped out, I wanted to go off and be a hero. I wanted to have stories to tell about brave things I'd done. Once I got there, I spent most of my time miserable and homesick, being ordered to do things without knowing the reasons why."

"What did you do?"

"What I was told, for the most part." Arthur picks at his salad. "I felt like I couldn't talk to anyone, that they wouldn't understand what I was going through. But looking back on it now, who knows. We were all scared kids, trying to figure it out as we went along. So I read the book Raafe had lent me, and it was like a lifeline that kept me going. Here was this book that was all about food I'd never eaten, places in the US I'd never been, and still—" Arthur shakes his head. "Somehow, reading it was like coming home at the end of a long day."

Eames leans forward, reaching out to tangle his fingers with Arthur's on the table. "Did you ever give the book back?"

"Nah, he gave it to me to keep after I saved his life," Arthur says. "It was the first time I was assigned to security detail. I thought it was going to be boring, but it ended up changing my life."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me he was the first client you ever slept with."

"He wasn't technically my—" Arthur protests, while Eames starts to laugh. 

"Luckily for me, you never learn," Eames says, kissing Arthur's knuckles.

"Hey, I waited this time," Arthur says. "I think that's progress."

"You did," Eames says agreeably. "And it was well worth it."


	9. The Cheese Plate

> **TIGER BEAT**  
>  **BREAKING NEWS: The last Dice Eames will ever roll!**  
>  _By Téodoro Cardenas_
> 
> Last week, Eames tied the knot with former bodyguard turned sweetheart, Arthur, in a castle (that's right, a real live CASTLE) owned by one of the pop sensation's distant relatives. The wedding was a joyous affair, attended by several hundred friends, family, and a few lucky reporters. In attendance were celebrity lights like actor Luis Estefan, singer Krystyl, and menswear designer Robert Fischer.
> 
> The couple looked fantastic together, with Eames in a surprisingly demure black tuxedo (designed by guest Fischer) and Arthur in an ivory three-piece-suit and boutonnière. Eames walked down the aisle with his vocal coach (a long-time pal), while Arthur was escorted by his younger sister, who joked that there was a 'no returns' policy when giving brothers away. There were more than a few teary eyes as vows were exchanged (Eames' went on for an incredible fifteen minutes, while his happy hubby got done in two!).
> 
> After the ceremony, live music played all night long as the couple's numerous musical friends sang odes to their union. The food was exceptional, with several chefs on hand to oversee the menu, and the distribution of the enormous tower of red velvet wedding cupcakes. 
> 
> The only blemish on an otherwise perfect night was when one of the grooms had to put his security skills into action, physically separating a few guests who'd had a bit too much celebratory champagne. Luckily, the brawl was over quickly and both grooms left for their honeymoon to Barbados, cheerful and unscathed.
> 
> Leave your good wishes for the newlyweds in the comments!

_3546 readers have responded_

> OMG I can't believe Eames is married!!! Who will I marry now????  
>  Oh, and CONGRATS <3  
>  \- _Eamesgirl101_

> Eames/Dice 4 eva!!!!!  
>  CONGRATZ:):)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
>  \- _Eamester4life324_

> AMAZING NEWS, I AM SO HAPPY FOR YOU GUYS!!!!! I HOPE U HAVE A HAPPY MARRIED LIFE!!!
> 
> PS I AM NOT THE ARTHUR WHO MARRIED EAMES (I WISH!) I JUST HAVE THE SAME NAME BUT I AM THEIR BIGGIST FAN  
>  \- _Arthur_

_Click to read the rest of the comments / 86788 Likes on Facebook / Tweets [97956]_

Fin


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